Algae for Oil

So my uncle is a scientist who works for a university in the Pacific Northwest. He was in town today and over breakfast at Village Inn he started telling everyone about his current work: turning algae into oil. He even pulled out his laptop to show up where we could find the oil inside the algae. It was like watching a nerdy prospector with one tooth yell out "there's oiiiil in them there organelles!!! OIL, I TELLS YA!"

Personally, I think if he's going to be using alchemy to turn crap into other crap, he should be turning lead into gold or water into wine. But I had to be polite and the idea did seem intriguing, so I asked questions, which he ignored. He dodged when I asked him exactly how much oil you could squeeze out of the algae.

He also claimed that the algae they worked with was genetically-engineered to be virtually indestructible. When I asked him what they did at the lab to make sure this mutant pond-scum didn't get into Puget Sound and bloom like an onion at Outback Steakhouse, he seemed genuinely perplexed.

"That's a good question."

...seriously? A Berkeley-educated, PhD biology professor hasn't thought through the consequences of what happens if his $500 million mutant algae makes its way into the ecosystem? What if it becomes self-aware and decides to start calling its own shots like Skynet?

The algae decided our fate in a microsecond: extermination

All in all, I found his algae-mutate-for-drops-of-oil proposal tantalizing, but economically questionable. And slightly terrifying. He did encourage me to invest in algae farms, saying that pond scum oil would be the wave of the future. Eh. I'll think I'll put my money on emu oil.

If I *had* money, that is.

Soooo...

Had way too much "Christmas cheer" this weekend and got "Christmas sick." The maternal unit was "pissed." She tried to force-feed me menudo the next morning as soon as I woke up, but really, menudo is not appealing at all first thing in the morning. I think she did it as payback. Re-evaluating questionable decision-making patterns for the upcoming year.

In the meantime -- sleeeeep...

Feliz Navidad

Christmas is over. I survived yesterday's Mass in spite of questionable singing. I got two knives, a leather jacket, and cash as gifts. And my aunt snuck me two fairly strong sangrias, which I drank right in front of my mom's face without her knowing. All in all, a stereotypically Chucho-style Christmas.

Now, it's time to get back on another one of my half-assed diets. I wanna get a head-start on my empty promises New Year's Resolutions for 2010. And in all honesty, I'm not looking forward to the new year at EP Fitness. If it's anything like the Rec Center at UNT, for the next two weeks the gym will be flooded with lardos well-intentioned people clogging up the place like arterial plaque.

Seriously, though, I gotta get back on the ball. Sexy takes work. Stupid sexy.

Tabla Rasa

Dear 2010 --

Please get here soon. I did a lot of dumb shit in 2009, and I kind of want to just write this whole year off and call it "finding myself." Oh, learning the hard way about actions and your silly, silly consequences.

I've got fences to mend, bridges to burn, things to forget, and lessons to remember. I need a new start, a clean slate, a second (third? fourth?) chance. I need to limit my intake of Whataburger, caffeine, and The Fray. I should learn to stop going into bulldog argument mode when it comes to politics and instead talk about X-Men mythology more. I need to reconcile New Me with Old Me. I need to do a better job at balancing forces in opposition.

And also, I'm curious to see how many people say "Two thousand ten" as opposed to "Twenty ten."

So stop by when you can. But I'm in no rush. As the Arabs say, al-sabour jameel -- patience is beautiful. See you on the flip side, 2010. And 2009, go to Hell. Don't get me wrong, we had some good times together. But seriously, I'm through with you.


Your pal,
El Guero

A Quick Lesson on Circuit Courts

Today, I'm going to write about circuit courts -- because I'm a nerd and because I'm waiting for the boss' schedule to open up so I can harass him about a motion I finished two days ago that needs his approval.

First of all, a little background on the way things work: if you're an immigrant and you're getting deported, you don't go to court immediately. Granted, they *call* it court, the "judge" dresses up in "robes,"and all kind of legal mumbo jumbo goes down. But it's not court. Really, it's a no-rules, no-holds-barred, everything goes administrative proceeding, kind of like Survivor: The Department of Justice but not really.

Once everything goes down, if you or the government doesn't like what the immigration judge says, either of you can appeal to aptly-named Board of Immigration Appeals, also a part of DoJ. Then, if you don't like what the BIA has to say (and most immigrants don't), you appeal at the appellate level and go to real court at the circuit level.

The circuit courts are the ones that decide what lobbyists Congress *actually* meant when it passed a law. Each circuit is its own special little snowflake when it comes to interpreting law. There are 13 of them, and each one has a unique personality. Here's a map to give you a better idea of how things are divided up:

13 Special Little Gerrymandered Snowflakes!!!

You have to take these personalities into account when you pick cases to cite in your arguments. For instance, although the Supreme Court usually agrees with the 9th Circuit's logic, you have to take what that circuit says with a grain of salt because the judges there are a bunch of bong-toting hippies from the Northern Marianas Islands who believe in things like human dignity and we don't need a buncha damn Californians telling us how to do things in TEXXX-USS. Also, here in Texas, our circuit hates one of the other circuits. I can never remember which one, but we're not supposed to cite from it. I think they slept with our girlfriend in high school or something.

Anyways, ideally if you are an immigration lawyer in Texas, you want to cite cases from the 5th Circuit (THE FIGHTIN' FIFTH!!!!) which includes us, Louisiana, and Mississippi, for some reason. It's hard to find groundbreaking cases that will exonerate your client from the 5th Circuit because the judges tend to not like to think too hard about complicated things be more conservative. A lot of times they will affirm a lower court's ruling and pass the case onto the Supreme Court so those dudes and dudettes can try to make some sense out of the hot ghetto messes.

Right. So where was I going with this? I honestly can't remember. All I know is that my boss wants me to have an Erin Brockovitch moment and none of the circuits are helping me. If I could just find a case where some activist judge (probably in the 9th Circuit) interprets "illegal immigrants" to mean "penguins," that would really help me out.

But it would also make me sad, because then we'd have to deport millions of penguins. And I like penguins.

/nerdiness

Se Habla Español

Dear Everybody --

Yes. I speak Spanish. I know you think that because I'm a güero (EL Güero to you) with the whitest TV anchorman name ever that I either don't speak Spanish or that I only know enough to make an ass out of myself in public. (Yo KEE-air-oh Tah-ko Bell, way!)

I assure you, I'm a lot more fluent than you think I am. I tested out of three years of college coursework and ended up minoring in it. My grandmother doesn't speak a word of English. I've done court-approved translation of Mexican law. Freaking, I GREW UP HERE. "Ese güero nos entiende?"

Si cabrones, we're all required to take Spanish in high school. Even then, even if my mom *wasn't* an old-school Chicano rights activist and I really was a total white boy, you think people honestly don't understand *any* Spanish? It's not like you're speaking some complicated language like Chinese. El carro? You honestly think we can figure out that means "car"? Stupid heads.

Now am I perfect when I speak? No. But chances are, my Spanish is a lot better than your English. And, by the way, yes, I *listen* to music in Spanish. Almost exclusively. Check my iPod. Mana, Reik, Wisin y Yandel, Juanes, everything. Not only that, I know that Gloria Trevi is a crazy sex-pervert who supposedly trafficks young girls for her agent, that Daddy Yankee endorsed John McCain for president, and that Juanes started out in a Colombian metal band called Ekymosis.

So BACK UP, putos! Stop stereotyping me, or else -- palo!!!

This Would Probably Attract Chupacabras

Quote of the Day:

Please, this is TEXAS. If someone tells me I *can't* slaughter a goat on my lawn, that's Big Government. And we don't take that shit here -- Me to "The Baker" (yes, that's your nickname, you know why) re: the offering of goat holocausts to Our Lord

TEMPWAR!!!!

I woke up this morning freezing my ass off as usual. My family has the habit of keeping this house at the same temperature as an industrial-strength meat locker and then criticizing me for "being overdramatic" by wearing a hoodie or jacket inside.

Today I'd had enough and checked the thermostat to see if it was broken. It wasn't -- it was just set to 55 degrees.

WE ARE *PEOPLE* DAMMIT! Buildings in the First World should *not* be 55 degrees. So I cranked that bitch up to 75. When the family returned from morning Mass, they were incredibly upset and "hot." Well, tough shit. We've made it clear that we don't take the feelings of others into consideration when we make decisions. Let the passive aggression turn into an outright thermic war.

Standard negotiation procedure says the temperature should now be set to 65, which is closer to the more bearable temperature range of 68 to 77 degrees cited by Wikipedia as "room temperature." That is, if these miscreants are interested AT ALL in peace. If they do not cave, I shall be forced to continue being capricious. We are not poor. We do not live in a Charles Dickens novel. We can afford to have the heat on.

In fact, maybe I'll leave it on 90 and walk around shirtless in December. That actually sounds pretty nice. It also sounds like another negotiation tactic. No one wants to watch me sweat in boxer shorts. NOBODY. But that's a harsh tactic. I'll hold on to that one for later.

UGH AND MY DAD IS PLAYING OPERA AGAIN!!! THIS FAMILY IS DRIVING ME NUTS UUUUUUUUNNNNGHHH I HATE LIVING BACK AT HOME

/rant

Applications, Applications...

Add to applications list:

George Washington University -- Washington, DC (this school actually has a really badass national security law program. And guess who's into that?)

University of Hawaii at Manoa -- Honolulu, Hawaii (hey now, I really *am* actually interested in Hawaiian culture. And I could see myself making a life there. Just saying...)

EDIT 7:06 p.m. Accepted by the University of Miami...but they didn't offer me anything! Boo to them, that means they're pretty much off the list and that the offer from Baylor is a lot better than I had originally thought. This may be as good as it gets, folks...

Law School Update

Hey, I know this is technically my third post today, but I wanted to give a law school update.

Accepted to the University of Denver. They also offered me a partial scholarship, but the deal's not nearly as good as the one Baylor offered me. Still, chalk up another school on the list. Woot.

Law School Tally:
Accepted - 2
Reject - 0
Still waiting - 16

The bar has been set. Baylor's in the lead. California schools, you gotta step it UP.

Ask El Güero

I will confess that I read the online magazine Slate pretty regularly. Usually they have articles that are interesting or practical, such as this article on how long it takes to dissolve a human body in lye. Very good to know if you live in under constant threat of cartel violence. I will also admit that even though I'm fairly liberal, sometimes Slate gets to be too much for me, especially when its readers ask for advice about problems that only liberals, in particular "limosine liberals," would have.

So, in loyal opposition to Dear Prudence, I have chosen to answer the most ridiculous questions I've seen asked in Slate with my own brand of Chuco-fied straight shooting. Ladies and gentleman, I give you: Ask El Güero!

¡¡¡ASK EL GÜERO!!!
*Mexican hat dance plays* On to our first question!

Dear Güero,
We're having Thanksgiving at my place this year. I'm vegan and I don't want to cook meat for Thanksgiving! In fact, I don't want any meat in my house *at all* because I'm so morally opposed to it. Why can't my family be open-minded? -- Peeved in Peoria

Answer: Because even if you are open-minded, sometimes vegan food just sucks. I mean, seriously, I've *tried* it, but I just can't get into it. I feel like most of the kick people get from eating "organic foods" comes from the fact that they paid more to have bugs crap all over their apples. Look, it's Thanksgiving, a time of year when everyone is expected to compromise their values and deny the core tenets of their identity in order to keep peace with blood relatives you secretly hate. So smile, eat your turkey, and STFU. Gobble gobble!

Dear Güero,
Whenever I hear someone sneeze, I don't say "bless you." My coworkers think I'm rude, but really it's because I feel like that's overtly shoving your religious views down someone's throat! Is there anything else I can say? -- Sneezy in Santa Fe

Answer: How about "I'm a sanctimonious douchebag?" Sneezy, let me ask you -- have you ever uttered the phrase "Oh my God"? Or "good-bye," which started out as a contraction for "God be with ye"? Or the phrase "Goddamit"? I know *I* did when I read this. I'm betting you have to, which makes you a *huge* hypocrite by your own standards. In fact, isn't *not* saying "bless you" kind of a way for you to shove *your* religious views down someone's throat? "Bah, cling to your impotent religion, FOOLS! I will not play your futile little reindeer games by saying 'bless you!' A pox on your houses!"

If, as an godless heathen, it bothers you that you might be invoking some non-existent shaman spirit, you can always quote Nietzche instead. For instance, after someone sneezes you can respond with a polite "God is dead." Or instead of "God bless you," think "Flying Spaghetti Monster bless you." Problem solved. And if you happen to be the kind of person who actually doesn't use any God-derived phrase in speech, your coworkers probably won't be shocked when you tell them something weird after they sneeze, give that you probably talk like a stilted, autistic Martian anyway.

Dear Güero,
I love my family, don't get me wrong, but I have one uncle who thinks that Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh, and Sarah Palin are the bee's knees. It gives me social anxiety disorder to be confronted with views different from my own! How do I convince him he's wrong? -- Liberal in Lansing

Answer: You can't. Just drink like the rest of us. Alcohol exists for a reason.

Dear Güero,
My kids, age 6 and 8, love astronomy, but I think NASA is such a waste of money when there's so much starvation here in the United States! Should I feign interest in what they like? On the one hand, I don't think they should waste their time chasing fiscally irresponsible dreams that are ultimately pointless. On the other, I don't want them to think that women can't be interested in science. Help! -- Mom from Mizzou (swear to Jeebus, this was an actual article)

Answer: Oh, the irony of not encouraging your children to chase after fiscally unsound dreams is that fact that you are LIBERAL! Isn't that funny? Ha ha! No? Okay. Here's the answer. Okay, freaking -- yes. You feign interest. And you don't do it to prove some overarching feminist point. You do it because they're your KIDS. My mom faked interest in Pokemon for YEARS, she can probably identify more than I can now. She didn't do it to prove she was a strong, independent woman. She did it because she wanted insight into my world. That's how human relationships work. For instance, my brother loves Norwegian black metal. I've made it clear before that I *hate* that genre of music, but I listen to to what he says about it anyway because, well, he will literally keep lecturing you about the history of metal even after you've made it clear you have no interest in that subject, just to get on your nerves he's my brother and I love him. There's are the sacrifices you make for family. If this stresses you out, drag out that ratty, lime-green mat in the corner and do your yoga.

Thanks everybody! See you next week!

L'snob? C'est moi

Quote of the Day:

"Todavia estoy debating si quiero dejar cheeseburgers pa que yo sea ripped. En este momento, creo que no. Ese pinche payaso de McDonald's me hace gordo pero feliz..." -- Me to La Diosa, re: weight loss

Oh reality checks -- how unwelcome yet necessary you are. If only alcohol could make the impact of the following statement, which is apparently shared by many coworkers, less...impactful:

"Wow, I'm really glad we're talking! You're actually really cool and friendly and fun! I mean, honestly, at first when I met you, I thought you were, like, a snob. You were all quiet. I remember one time I tried to be social, and you said like a one-word answer, and I saw you were on Facebook, and I felt all sad..."

Fantastic. I am the office douchebag. I suppose the upside of this would be confirmation of the fact that I am *not* unfriendly, uncool, and unfunny, but still. I'm the only dude in an office full of women! That's intimidating. Plus I work at a law firm, I can't just stroll in and start talking about what debauchery my friends and I engage in on the weekends! It's not like it's *that* bad, but even if it weren't subject to Bro Code exemptions, it's still not usually office-appropriate.

Whatevz. I'll start going on the charm offensive. I'm really not a withdrawn, anti-social douche! Please love me...

Also, little ego boosts of the day: even at Mulligan's on a Thursday night, I still get recognized. "Hey, you played saxophone in high school, right? You did region stuff and you were really good?" Four years later, they still haven't forgotten about me. I think that tops the time a lady at my gym recognized me as being from the church choir and went off on how good we sound. Top Gun asked, "Dude, you go to church?" Combine this with the generally positive response to my latest Facebook profile picture -- based on the tittering of women worldwide and an uptick in unsolicited friend requests because Facebook usurped my privacy and opened my page up for anyone to see YOU HATERS CHOKE ON YOUR OWN BILE!!! -- and I think I'll be able to absorb the blow of knowing I'm an alleged snob.

Micro-celebrity, thou art sweet.

An Open Letter to Women

Dear Women --

WHY ARE YOU SO CRAZY? It's always the same thing with you guys. Yes, you are all unique individuals with complex thoughts and feelings and you should be respected. But you are crazy and frustrating. This has been especially true as of late, where female interest in me has spiked and yet still left most of the people interested in me off-limits.

Case in point: friend of mine says she ran into someone who knew me."Oh Kirk? I know him! He hit on me and my friend like a year ago! He's cute. Does he have a girlfriend?" Uh, no. I'm also 500 miles away. WHY DID YOU SAY NOTHING WHEN I HIT ON YOU A YEAR AGO?!? If you did I probably would remember who you are. Ladies, it's called "flirt back." I'm not a friggin' mind reader. I don't have a pheremone detector. I never thought *I'd* be saying this to women, but COMMUNICATE.

I need to rant, so here is a short list of the annoying/crazy girls and all the annoying/crazy things they do that I've had to deal with in my life:

* Girls who admire from afar but never say anything
* Girls with glaring personality flaws who want to know why *specifically* you don't like them. That's like asking what *specifically* killed someone in a head-on collision with a semi
* Girls who are space cadets
* Girls who misinterpret innocent gestures as confessions of a deep, unspoken love
* Girls who are off-limits for social, cultural, religious, moral, or ethical reasons (hot though that may be)
* GIRLS WHO ARE HUNG UP ON THEIR EXES. Ugh.
* Girls who suddenly become interested in you when you're 500 miles away
* Girls who finally come around after you've already given up on them
* Girls who may or may not have tried to unsuccessfully poison a romantic rival with a muffin full of ammonia (true story)
* Girls who admit to quasi-stalking you for years without your knowledge
* Girls who are *not* hot and still have the audacity to suggest you make out with your best guy friend WHILE SOBER because that'd be hot for her
* Girls with crazy eyes
* Vegetarians (although to be fair, I've met some very sweet vegetarians, and it's not really a *girl* thing as it is the fact that I just don't like tofu)

God. I know all we have to do is tell you that you're pretty and you smell nice, but c'mon. I'd pull a reverse Mount Holyoke and lez out on guys with all my disillusionment, but that's like saying I'm moving from Phoenix to Libya because I don't like heat. I don't want crazy. I don't want drama. I want nice and stable.

This is all I'm asking: please be a little more sane. If you're interested, don't B.S. me. And speak up. I'm a guy. I'm dumb and emotionally stunted and messed up from years of Catholic sexual repression *must...tighten...cilice...*

But I'm a sweet teddy bear with hands from God. And I'm willing to overlook your craziness if you're willing to overlook mine. Think about it, ladies. Kthxbai.

Your pal, El Guero

Chomsky, King of the Jews?

Quote of the Day:

"I know that not all Jews are bad. I personally love Chomsky" -- My friend "Oussa" from Tunisia, re: Jews

So I got into a discussion with Oussa about U.S. policy in the Middle East via MSN. Fuuuuuun. Don't get me wrong, Oussa is awesome and I love talking to her, but conversations about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict are always tough, especially when your interlocutor is Arab, you're American, and you have to defend a decades-long pissing contest with the Soviet Union and the line of neo-con bullshit spewing from Washington.

Still, the best exchange of the night in my opinion went as follows:

ME: I hope you know that I agree with you on a lot of your points. I'm just playing Devil's advocate :)
OUSSA: Yeah!! You are! Pfft!
ME: Lol
ME: I'm going to be a lawyer, it's what I have to do ;-)
OUSSA: Lol. You'll set criminals free!! I hate you! [NOTE: She didn't really mean that...I think]

Now, I know *usually* saying that someone will set criminals free is a bad thing, but I took it as a compliment that I am good at arguing and that I'd make an excellent defense attorney. Of course, I'd never do that. I have morals. For now. Also, on a personal note, I'm thinking about maybe becoming an entertainment lawyer. I know! How I can go from immigrant advocacy to filing frivilous lawsuits for Quincy Jones? Mortal sin. Don't tell anyone, you guys!

And finally, I saw a Bud Light commercial on Facebook a.k.a. that rich bastard Mark Zuckerburg's personal data Ponzi scheme for selling my individuality to the highest bidder YOU ASSHOLE!!! that translated "drinkability" as "tomabilidad." Ladies and gentleman, we've translated a nonsense word from one language to another.

Cue apocalyspe in three...two...

It's Really the Simple Things in Life

Short post.

The best times in life are not the ones spent slaving away behind a desk or the ones where you feel compelled to recite your resume in an attempt to have somebody judge you. They're the the ones you spend having Kitten Cannon wars and Bowman 2 deathmatches with your buddy on a Sunday night, with True Life, G.I. Jane, and Jackass alternating in the background.

Also, for future reference, speaking Arabic works well when trying to pick up Arab women, but other girls do not find it to be a turn-on. In fact, it scares them a little. Duly noted. Thanks to my man "Top Gun" for throwing it out in our attempt to pick up the hostess at Applebee's, though. He's a good wingman.

People come before all else in life. And youth really is the best time to be alive. It's finite, but I plan on enjoying it to its fullest.

That's all for tonight.

Good News. Actually, Great News...

Hey haters! Choke on this...

ACCEPTED to Baylor University in Waco, Texas. Crazy thing is, I sent my application in six days ago, so I was a little upset when I saw the package at first. I thought it was more recruitment material and I was like "I already have enough brochures. God."

Anyway, turns out I not only got admitted, they're giving me full scholarship in the ballpark of $120,000. And I got a handwritten note from the law school's dean asking me to pretty please accept admission. Worst comes to worst, I graduate almost completely debt-free from a pretty decent law school. That's win.

Take note, other law schools. These guys called first dibs and they treated me right. This is what you have to top. And then there were 17. I'm still not even done sending out applications yet. Hah.

And Baylor -- thank you. I withdraw the Branch Davidian joke I made earlier.

Ima Start Thinking About my L-School Apps Like a Reality Show

OMFG LAW SCHOOL SUBMISSIONS UPDATE LULZ! (Like anyone cares)

Add the following law schools to the list of people who I have chosen to honor with my prescence in their applicant pool. Please don't throw me into your slush pile!

Chapman University -- Orange County, California (damn straight! There's a law school in Orange County...)
University of Denver -- Denver, Colorado (obviously. Full disclosure: my mom got her master's degree here)
Emory University -- Atlanta, Georgia
The University of New Mexico -- Albuquerque, New Mexico (my brother's up for undergrad scholarship here, and it's the closest law school that's not *cough* Texas Tech)
St. Mary's University* -- San Antonio, Texas

I asterisked St. Mary's because they actually REQUIRE my signature and a check, so I haven't *technically* applied yet. WTF, St. Mary's? Make me print out a letter to send you? Ugh. It drives me nuts when law schools have their own little weird requirements. As long as no one asks for a goat heart, I think I'll be fine. ALTHOUGH, if it gets me full scholarship, I can go all Chupacabra for the admissions committee if I need to.

Also, note to Emory: HA! You said I had to keep my personal statement to two pages, but you didn't say shit about the *margins*. That's right, I'm going all lawyer on your butts now. Narrow margin option on Microsoft Word FOR THE WIN. Read it. Love it. Give me money. Please.

By the way, NONE OF THESE were fee waiver schools, so you guys should feel honored that I'm paying real money a majority of which will come from my parents to deal with you. I don't get paid to fight the Man, you know.

...seriously, please let me in. I'll be good, I promise. I love you :-D

EDIT 11:00 MST Dudes, I just counted. I've already applied to 18 different law schools. And I still have about five or six more to go. I think this makes up for the fact that I only applied three places for undergrad. *Bitter*

Stopping for Wi-Fi on a Snowy Morning

First order of business: Kristoph's Coffeehouse CLOSED! In August, according to my cousin! And my friends and I who "loved" it barely noticed! We all tried to remember when the last time we went was and we really couldn't. That's probably why it closed.

For what it's worth, I kind of hated that place in high school. In fact, I kind of hate pretentious-ass coffeeshops and what they represent in general, but now that I've gotten hooked on caffeine, I have to repress that anger, buy a $4 effeminate-sounding coffee, lie back, and think of England. (My caffeine abstention failed quickly, in case you were wondering a couple weeks ago.)

So why am I looking for Wi-Fi? Because I'm still writing that article, still waiting for people to call me back, and I can't get anything accomplished at the house. It's a Hell that sucks from me all motivation. So I've gone looking around for free Wi-Fi on the East Side. Here's what I found.

Kristoph's -- Closed. Obviously no Wi-Fi there.

El Paso Library Irving Schwarz Branch -- You FAIL me, socialism! I show up at 10:15 a.m. on a Tuesday morning looking to take refuge in your hallowed walls, and I find out you don't start working until noon. Like some pothead. It'll be another two years before I visit YOU again. Pfft.

Burger King on Lee Trevino -- You had so much potential. You really did. I walked in at 10:23ish and your cashier looked at me like I was silly when I asked if it was too early for chicken fries. You had free Wi-Fi! You were clean! No one was there! You even had the TV tuned to CNN! I would have NEVER thought that I would feel like yelling out "Nasir's point about Pakistani ISI involvment in Afghanistan is SPOT ON!" in a Burger King. It was like heaven on earth. But you didn't have power outlets. And my battery was low. A Romeo and Juliet love tragedy with grease. I'll miss you.

Starbucks on Lee Trevino -- Screw that. They've raped me of enough of my money already. And their Wi-Fi costs $4. In Tunis I could get Wi-Fi Internet access with purchase of a bottle of Coke (Kookah-Koola) and I could get coffee that fucked me up good for like a dime. And that's AFRICA. Kiss my hipster ass.

Village Inn on Trawood -- Why are there five million people at VILLAGE INN on a snowy Tuesday morning? What the hell is this, a Norman Rockwell painting? Forget that.

Carl's Jr on Lee Trevino across the street from Hanks High School -- Let me just say: I HATE CARL'S JR.! I'd rather gnaw on poison than shove one of those abominations they call "burgers" down my gullet. But they have free Wi-Fi. They also have a flat-screen TV tuned to CNN, but the volume's turned down. I can't hear news over the sound of Lady GaGa taking a ride on my disco-stick. Still, this is where I've settled, STILL waiting for NMSU to call me back. I hate journalism. I'll probably be camped out here, nursing Diet Coke refills and listening to Enrique Iglesias' "Escape" on a loop until I get kicked out. "You can ruuun, you can hiiide, but you can't escape my loooove..."

Fun fact from the graffiti in the bathroom, though: "BOBBY LIKES COCK!!! ALOT! (sic)" and "Frankie eat's dick (sic)" Good to see the kids at Hanks are getting a good education. And remind me to stay away from Frankie, whoever he (she?) is.

EDIT 12:02 P.M. Oh crap. Today's the first day of December. And I forgot what my New Year's Resolution for 2009 was.

What the Hell Just Happened?

CRAZY day. That's...really the best way to put it.

At Least I'll Keep Some People Warm This Winter

Big name schools submitted today. Three out of four Four out of five of these were fee waiver schools. Hopefully they at least glance over my application before throwing it callously into the incinerator because my LSAT score is a few points too low:

Columbia University -- New York City, New York
University of Michigan -- Ann Arbor, Michigan
Duke University -- Durham, North Carolina
Southern Methodist University -- Dallas, Texas
NEW: Baylor University -- Waco, Texas

Now I know what you're thinking. "You hated UNT. Why would you want to go back to Dallas?" And yes. I DID hate UNT, for the most part. And Denton was a desolate prairie-town choked in quiet desperation. BUT, DFW itself is pretty cool. I wouldn't mind going back. Which is why I applied in spite of the fact that SMU didn't give me a fee waiver *shakes fist*. SMOOOOOOO!!!

...as you were.

P.S. I was on the fence about Baylor, but it was free to apply. I just hope I don't get tracked down by the Branch Davidians...

Judge, Jury, and Executioner

Admissions Hearing, Docket No. 101-23-456
The People v. Miguel Hakim de la Santisima Trinidad

*METAL CLANGING SOUND*

Prosecutor: Judge, as you can clearly see, this applicant is unworthy of entrance into law school. His LSAT score is mediocre, and although his GPA is fairly high, he got his degree from a backwater hick college with a lackluster academic record and the worst football team this side of the Mississippi! Even the Defendant himself admits that his bachelor's degree is functionally useless.

Me: It was a pretty shitty school. I mean, Dr. Phil went there...

Prosecutor: I rest my case! Given these circumstances, it is obvious that the Defendant would not be a good law student. His motion for admission should and must be denied.

Defense: Your Honor, the Prosecution's objections are as strained and threadbare as William Shatner's girdle. There is not an applicant out there more capable at succeeding in law school than my client. First of all, the Eagles and Mean Joe Green also went to my client's school. Second of all, for the past five months, he has been volunteering in the trenches of immigration law, fighting for Lah RAH-zuh...

Me: (angrily) La RAZA

Defense: See? Fluent in Spanish. And underprivileged! His mom is Mexican. He grew up fifteen minutes from a bloody civil war in Mexico!

Prosecutor: Judge, I mean, REALLY. This is a grade-A charade. While the Applicant's unpaid community service work is commendable, he's about as Mexican as Lou Dobbs, and his mom has a master's degree. How underprivileged. Who does he think he's fooling with that goatee? And Your Honor, he's LAZY.

Defense: Are you calling my client a lazy Mexican?

Judge: You're on thin ice, Counselor.

Prosecutor: But just look at that paunch! He's tried to lose that countless times and he fails. We cannot invest our time in flabby, fatassed failures when we can place people with commitment AND rock-hard abs into the seats of this fair institution.

Me: ...(looks down at stomach with shame)

Defense: Your Honor, my client's failures can be explained away by medical conditions. He dropped out of music school because of a nerve-damaged hand, and he can't go to the gym because he's having pains of a manly nature. Let me ask you -- would a lazy person spend a summer learning Arabic in North Africa? Judge, admission into that program was more selective than admission to Harvard University! Judge, would a lazy person work two jobs and go to school full-time? Would a lazy person graduate from college in THREE years? Just look at these letters of recommendation. Hard-working. Dedicated. Mature. Funny. And he's a MEXICAN.

Prosecutor: Your Honor, all of Mr. Johnson's fancy arguments are moot. The Defendant himself doesn't even know if he wants to go to law school.

Judge: Is this true?

Me: (little boy voice)...I wanna go....

Judge: Young man, if the Prosecutor is right, then it doesn't matter how qualified or un-qualified you are. If you do not know if you want to go to law school, then you do not belong in law school. So before I render my decision, I have to ask: do you want to go to law school?

Me: ...

Frustrating Conversations

At the Lee Trevino Starbucks, over manly mocha frappachinos...

Me: Jason, what's up? You have this 40-yard stare like a Vietnam vet.
Jason: Something...happened in one of my art labs the other day...
Me: (concerned) What's going on? Is everything alright?
Jason: I bumped into a girl. And there was a spark. And I think she felt it, too.
Me: Like an actual spark? Or are you using figurative language?
Jason: Figurative language.
Me: Ahhh. Well, did you talk to her?
Jason: I said "sorry."
Me:...
Jason: But she kept looking at me! And every time I went to go wash my bowl, she went to wash her bowl, too! She would deliberately wait to do it. And then she'd smile at me.
Me: Sounds like she wanted you. Did you get her number?
Jason: Dude, I don't even know her name. It's the first time I've ever seen her and it's probably the last time. There were people there who knew her, but I don't talk to them.
Me: So go talk to those people and find out what her name was. Look her up on Facebook, send her a message, be all "I'm Jason and I'm arty and charming, we should get coffee." And then get coffee.
Jason: Isn't that stalkerish?
Me: Maybe. But I'm probably the wrong person to ask about what constitutes "stalkerish." I used to be a journalist.
Jason: Eh. I'm not desperate for a girlfriend.
Me: It's just coffee! It's not like you guys have to get married. If she's a total psychopath then you can always just never see her again. But if she's cool, then you guys could keep seeing each other. She could be "the One" for all you know.
Jason: She could also not be the One.
Me: True. You'd never know. But even if she's not "the One" and you decide you don't want her to bear five children by you from the first sip of coffee, she could introduce you to someone who could be the One. Or, she could introduce you to someone who introduces you to the One. But by not finding out her name, you completely break that chain of potential Ones.
Jason: Whoa. You're right. I've never thought about it like that.
Me: Besides, what other options do you have on the table? Remember "Bertha" from high school? Remember how she used to follow you around all the time...?
Jason: (face goes palid)
Me: You want me to call her up? I ran into her the other day. She works on the West Side now...
Jason: NO!

The frustrating part of this conversation is that I know Jason won't find out this girl's name. And frankly, I can't blame him, because although I am apparently a deep well of knowledge from whom all may quaff wisdom, I'm still single, precisely because I am also unwilling to take petty risks on almost sure bets. Case in point: other day I was at the doctor's office, and the receptionist noticed I was reading Dante's Inferno and said with a smile "that's a really good book."

This is El Paso. Who the hell else reads Dante's Inferno and thinks it's really good? That's like God saying, "You idiot. Ask her out." But I didn't. It's hard to be charming when you're being treated for high blood pressure -- which resulted from treating what doctors thought was a UTI but is probably just a torn ligament. "Yo baby, yo baby, yo baby! Want to help me relieve some hypertension? My urine sample's clean, NAH MEAN?!?" Besides, it's hard to turn the Inferno into a pick-up line. "Maybe you should let me take you on a tour of Hell sometime..."

...yeah. Doesn't work.

Guess it's good I'm going to law school, otherwise I'd probably die alone. I've already received word that at least one set of parents is encouraging their daughter to jump on the K-Train. "He's going to be a LAWYER. Good money..."

I...Survived Thanksgiving? What the Hell?

Thanksgiving, the national holiday that honors the autumnal harvest and feast of religious extremists illegal immigrants our Pilgrim forebears, came and passed without great incident. I was in shock and frankly a little disappointed. Nobody even tried to stab anybody this year. Oh well. Here are highlight from my life in the past 24 hours:

* A family member who will remain anonymous casually dropped the phrase "because you know how the Jews control the world" at the Thanksgiving table.

* Turned away passive-aggressive jokes with funnier passive-aggressive jokes.

* Used my grandmother's cane to sing her an overdramatic, improvised Spanish love song as though I was drunk

* Decided that many people in my life are wastes of time (not in my family, just in general)

In other news, I found out that my aunt got her condo cheap because a woman supposedly got raped there. Don't know if I believe it, but apparently, if you're willing to clean up months-old blood spatter, it really brings the price down. Huh. That almost makes spending summers at her place for Sea World camp as a child terrifying, but we're not a superstitious family, and I'm pretty jaded. My cousin moved into a house where a teenage girl committed suicide and it was pretty much no biggie. Also found out that *our* house apparently used to be a distribution center for underground pornography ring, which explains SO MUCH about who I am...

The potential for girl-drama on multiple fronts seems unusually high right now. Part of it is just my generalized narcissism, but part of it is taking/has taken/could possibly take place in reality. I don't know if I'm inadvertently sending out signals or if my pheremones carry for miles, but something is up. There's something ovulating in Denmark...

I came up with a working definition of a date that I think pretty much sums things up for me. "Dancing is just dancing. A date for me is like a sit down and talk kind of thing...where I have to pick up another person's tab and it amounts to more than $5 in non-alcohol-related activity." Obviously there are flaws -- there is the Starbucks exemption and the obvious "man-date" exemption if McDonald's is on me -- but it's a good jumping off point.

Next post: life as a "freelance journalist".

Meltdown: Revenge of the Turkey

Quick update before I go out to take the edge off some holiday stress with tequila, rum, and whatever else they've got at Applebee's some Thanksgiving cheer. Add two (conservative religious) schools to the list of completed law school applications:

Pepperdine University -- Malibu, California (MAAAAAL-I-BOOOO!! *Shakes fist* You promised me a fee waiver! NOOOO!)
University of Notre Dame -- Somewhere in Indiana (fee waiver + Catholic choir boy = win)

Oh, if only they knew what they're getting into...

This Thanksgiving was gearing up to be the equivalent of Chernobyl with Pilgrims, but thankfully Divine Providence has kept feuding family members away from one another. Thanks be to God that there are other, shittier cities in this part of the state for them to go to. Look like any meltdowns this year will be in the Three Mile Island range. I can live with those radiation levels.

And with that, I'm off.

EDIT 11:16 P.M. Thanksgiving cheer not only dampens my hatred of haters, but it also makes me love everything. At the risk of sounding like a drunken sorority girl, I have some of the best friends in the world! (Okay, not true. A lot of times they're neurotic bums, but I'm happy to have people in my life, nonetheless. I could be a sad, lonely cat lady. Also, thank God I'm back at the house and not around people right now. I'd probably be hugging acquaintances of either gender and telling them I loved them.)

EDIT 11:21 P.M. Yes, I know it's Wednesday and the middle of the week. But tomorrow's the day the Pilgrims discovered America, so it's okay.

EDIT 11:22 P.M. The edit above is a joke. I know that Allen Iverson discovered America and not the Pilgrims, so please get off my case.

EDIT 11:25 P.M. I was gonna work on more law school applications right now, but something tells me I should wait until morning. By the way...I love you guys! *histrionically*

How Getting Deported is Like Taking a Trip to Disneyland

Had immigration court this morning. Time for Miguel Hakim de la Santisima Trinidad to narrate another episode of Law and Order: La Raza. *Puts on law hat*

Case today centered on a Mexican asylum case. Asylum cases, particularly Mexican asylum cases, are tricky. First, it's hard for people to get asylum if they come from countries that the U.S. likes, because basically, the granting of asylum is tacit acknowledgment that a country a). is a jerk or b). can't get it's shit together. Think about it: how awkward would it be at the UN Christmas party if the U.S. told Canada, "by the way, we know about the guy whose balls you strapped to a car battery. We let him stay with us because you're mean." Awwwwkwaaaaard...

Mexico is one of the countries we actually like, contrary to what Glenn Beck says. They gives us tequila and tacos and a steady supply of illegal workers. They also buy a lot of crap from us. If you don't believe me, go to Cielo Vista Mall on a Wednesday and count the number of young guys you see wearing Hollister shirts and pointy shoes. So we can't really state the obvious -- that Mexico is mired in corruption and that parts of the country are blood-laved war zones -- because that would be awkward Oh my GAWD. Plus, we also get into issues of who is a legit asylee or not. Most of the time, these cases involve the cartels or else the police being assholes and killing your family. And yes, the police can be assholes who kill your family, but unless they kill your family because you're a Democrat, a Buddhist, a homosexual, ethnically Armenian, or ideally all those things, you do not qualify to come here under law. If they kill you just because they "don't like you" because you renegged on your drug deal, that's not asylum. That just sucks for you.

Anyways, the immigration lawyers in El Paso take on these almost impossible asylum cases because they believe in opening the floodgates to mass immigration, crashing the U.S. welfare state, and reclaiming Aztlan for the angry Serpent-God Quetzalcoatl helping people. The proceedings are interesting, at least to nerds like me. Basically, the attorneys for both the government and the immigrant bicker like children on a road trip, and the grandfatherly judge just rolls his eyes and sighs. You really feel for the guy. There were times I thought he would say "if you two don't shut up, I'm turning this courtroom around and we're not going to Disneyland!" (I wanted to compliment His Honor on having a great, Christmas-y Grinch tie, but I imagine that law slaves interns are discouraged from engaging in banter with the Bench.)

Witnesses ramble. The interpreter translates incomprehensible legalese from English to Spanish. You freeze your ass off in the conference room they dressed up to look like a courtroom. The asylum lawyer brings in a expert witness who vaguely reminds you of Velma from Scooby Doo. And eventually, everyone ends up leaving angry, hurt, and, confused, like a teenager who got rejected as a prom date.

So what's my opinion on Mexican asylum cases? Eh. Doesn't really matter, anyways, I'm not a judge or a lawyer.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm going to law school. Then I realize it's because I have nothing of value to contribute to society. Must...finish...applications...

The Man-Voice Dialectics, Part One

NOTE: The following entry makes extensive use of profanity.

Hey FATASS!

This is your inner Man-Voice. I know you've been using your inexplicable man-pain as a way to avoid going to the gym, but SUCK IT UP, YA GODDAM PANSY! You're balding and have an awkward head shape. If you don't have a smokin' hot bod, NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE YOU!

What happened to athlete from earlier this summer? You walked around the gym in a black tanktop showing off your pathetic-ass arms like you OWNED the place. Now you got pecs and some traps for the first time in your LIFE, and they're buried under layers of Hot Pockets because your Godzilla-ass can't stop eating. Ease up, yo. There are muscles, but they're like fucking FOSSILS, dude! All hidden and antediluvian and shit. And there ain't no paleontologists at the clubs, na'mean?

How do you expect to kick Osama bin Laden's ass in the future if you can't run? You mean to tell me that Osama's gonna outrun you because you sat on your elephantine butt all night to watch CSI: Miami? Homey, that assclown has KIDNEY disease and he can still hobble around the Khyber Pass like a motherfucker!

Bro, I'm not gonna lie to you. You an UGLY sonuvabitch. Ain't NOBODY gonna mistake you for Zac the Nut Sack Efron. Your eyes don't make me all woozy and shit. But you got potential. You could be a sexy fucker. And I don't even mean that in a gay way even though I'm kind of aroused right now. You shave that lumpy thing you call a head, eat creatine for breakfast, and you could be the next Vin Diesel, bro! Not even lying. So put down the remote and drag your ass to the GYM! And get PUMPED! WOOO!!! YOU WITH ME?!?!?

ME: Nah, man. Conan's on. But you know what? I could *really* go for a Chicken Marinara Sandwich. That's healthy, right? I mean, it's from SUBWAY...

Deep Conversations and Hittin' Da Clubs

So I have two friends that I've known since middle school. One is my good friend "Jason." I will use his American name because it provides him with some semblance of anonymity on this blog. He is one of the few immigrants in El Paso who is not from Mexico. I will not disclose which country, but let's just say he hails from a far-off place Jack Sparrow visited in one of the Pirates of the Carribbean movies.

Yours truly is in the fetching hat

The second friend is a tall white guy, vaguely Viking-esque. After looking up "Vikings" on Wikipedia, I've decided I'll call him Ivar the Boneless, after the 9th century Danish Viking chieftain by the same name.

So the other day, Jason and I were at Whataburger, discussing the eminent extinction of the Thick 'n' Hearty Burger, a national tragedy to say the least. Earlier in the day, Ivar's sister had suggested I call him to check up on him, so as we ate, Jason and I decided to call Ivar in Austin and invite him to join our lament for a burger whose life was cut all too short. Unfortunately, Ivar didn't answer, but we left a 90-second message calling him a douchebag and telling him that he needed to head down to his nearest Whataburger before it was too late.

Flash forward to yesterday. I get a call from Ivar. Now the past few calls I've gotten from him have been along the lines of cryptically short, 30-second brag sessions updates on his life. This was no exception. He had called to tell me that he was at a conference in New York City, at a famous intersection, on an all expenses paid trip. He also proceeded to say that he'd been swamped with various all-nighters and other work.

I interrupted him. "Why didn't you take me and Jason's call?"
HIM: "Oh, well, I usually keep my phone off because I've just been so busy and..."
ME: "But Ivar, we were calling to let you know that the Thick 'n' Hearty burger was going away next month. It was urgent."
HIM: "..."
ME: "Have you ever had one?"
HIM: "Well, no. But you know what? I come into town on Tuesday evening, and I was thinking that it's been a while since I've seen the both of you, and..."
ME: "You need to have a Thick 'n' Hearty Burger, Ivar."

Long story short, we have tentative plans for a Thanksgiving Break Whataburger session. And full disclosure: I've never actually had the aforementioned burger. It looks disgusting.

On a random note, I went out clubbing/bar-hopping in the Union Plaza district twice this weekend, and I have to say, Escapade is awesome. I never knew a DJ could turn that annoying-ass Taylor Swift song about "short skirts and T-shirts and she's cheer captain and I'm on the bleachers" into something you could grind to. Kudos. The music selection was a total schizo assortment of reggaeton, dirty hip-hop, rock and roll, and old school Chicken Dance crap. It was fantastic.

Highlight of the night: drunk guy arguing with other guys in Spanish while waiting for parking garage elevator. Drunk guy gets in elevator, other guys stay behind. Drunk guy demands to know why other guys aren't getting into elevator. Guy shouts out "Culos pa'rriba!" Everyone laughs. Drunk guy looks like a jackass. Doors close. I love El Paso.

Aaaaand We're Off

Started sending off law school applications today. So far I've slogged through seven. They are:

Santa Clara University -- Santa Clara, California
Loyola Marymount University -- Los Angeles, California
University of Miami -- Coral Gables, Florida (wtf? how?)
University of San Diego -- San Diego, California (no false advertising there. Just kidding UM, hah hah...please don't hate me, it was a joke...)
University of Texas -- Austin, Texas
Washington and Lee University -- Lexington, Virginia
College of William & Mary -- Williamsburg, Virginia

Most of these schools gave me fee waivers because I'm an underrepresented minority, and thank God for that. Law school applications are ridiculously expensive. Duke and Pepperdine offered me waivers, too. I'm tackling their applications next. Columbia University also offered to let me apply for free, but I haven't even really looked at their application in depth. I should probably get around to that. I've been avoiding East Coast schools, but New England needs Mexicans, particularly non-threatening Mexicans.

C'mon, guys. Papa needs a scholarship...

Also, my blood pressure is up. A ridiculous amount, resulting from trying to treat other health problems. Anyways, long story short, yesterday was the first day in months I have been truly caffeine-free. It was grim. As of 4:30 mountain time, I have been without caffeine for more than 36 hours. *Shakes, itches* I've also initiated the "Eat a Banana, Dammit!" campaign. Want a snack? Need to lower sodium levels? Lose weight? Have an ethical dilemma. Eat a banana, dammit.

P.S. Dear Body -- STFU and do your job.

Random Thoughts Before Sunday Ends

Caffeine, fast food – I wish I knew how to quit you.

I’m starting a weeklong moratorium on fast food and caffeine, aka the only two things that keep me alive. I hope and pray that I survive this detox. Thank God I don’t have friends who smoke, otherwise I’d probably be bumming cigarettes and claiming that I can’t get cancer because I’m only “socially” ingesting fiery nicotine into my supple pink lungs.

Hating on haters

You’re a skeeze. I hate you. It would give me no greater pleasure than to yell "SKEEZE!" to your face, but I doubt you'd care. Which would take away from the pleasure of calling you a skeeze. It's a Catch-22.

And finally, on a strangely toned religious note…

My taste in songs for Mass is subversively Protestant. Don’t get me wrong, I love the fact that the Catholic Church has things like structure, dignity, and tradition, and knowing that from East to West, perfect offerings are being made using the same words in different languages is great. When I was in Tunis I went to Mass held in Italian and I was able to follow because the ritual was the same.

But come ON, let’s live a little! What happened to the Vatican that brought down the Soviet Union or the Vatican that has a bunch of bishops running around in Dan Brown novels? I know I’m not *supposed* to like “worship” music because it comes from those pesky schismatics, but we’re losing people because they feel alienated by codgery old prudes and their codgery young children who cast disapproving looks over EVERYTHING. One way we can reach out is with good music. We are NOT fundamentalist Bible-thumpers who forbid singing because it might lead to dancing and God forbid talking. The Catholic Church is the foundation of Western music. If there's anything we know, it's that music can bring people into an experience on a whole other level. So why are we so lame when it comes to reaching out?

Churches used to be places where people came together to celebrate. When did we go from rejoicing in being alive to “Thou shalt not dance in the House of God. Thou shalt not have guitars or percussive instruments, nor shall thine musicians induce excitement about what is going on in front of everyone”? Sure, there should be restraint. I've seen horrible circus clowns who make themselves the center of attention at services with antics and overstated sound systems. Verily, they will get their reward. But Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 says there’s a time for everything, right? “A time to mourn and a time to dance”? So why are we always so dour?

Whatever. I’m not a cardinal and I’m going to Hell anyways, it’s not like my opinion matters. Black Baptists and Zoroastrians, you’re on notice. I need music and/or fire in my worship services.

Peccados Deportados con El Señor Miguel

In the immigrant justice system, indigent clients are represented by two groups of people: the non-profit attorneys who argue the cases for peanuts and the interns who try to prove that somehow, some way, the firm's clients are being chased by El Chapo. These are their stories.

*METAL CLANGING SOUND*

So since graduating from college in May, I've been waiting out the economic crapstorm by volunteering to advance La Causa. My mission: trying to keep people from being deported to Mexico, a.k.a. 300 feet *that* way. I'm going on my fifth month at the center now. I got a T-shirt y todo, and if I roll up the sleeves I can show off my slowly growing but still pathetic arms. 'Sta bien chida.

Most people would find the ins-and-outs of immigration law to be boring. But me, I like to think of my volunteer work like it's all part of some primetime novela. Think Law and Order: La Raza. Granted, we don't get to carry guns or have intense dialogues, but some of the shit we pull would make Jack McCoy himself say WTF?

In the 400-plus volunteer hours I’ve logged as Kirk the Law Slave hotshot legal assistant Miguel Hakim de la Santisima Trinidad, I have done the following things:

• Compiled a 300-page cancellation of removal case that hinged on menopause being considered an “exceptional and extremely unusual hardship." The judge didn’t bite, but he did admit it was a valiant effort after he ordered my client deported. (As an aside, I hope I NEVER have to hear the phrase “submucosal fibroid” EVER again. *Shudder*)
• Worked on an appeal involving a Somali guy who is not a pirate.
• Wrote bitchy motions to the Department of Homeland Security arguing that embezzlement – if it WAS indeed committed *scoff* – isn’t REALLY a crime of moral turpitude.
• Talked my way out of going to a client's house at a nun's behest when she explained that there might be a slight possibilty that her jealous boyfriend might stab me. Yeah. Nuns work at our office
  
• Caught myself using scare quotes when referring to things like “good moral character” and “national security exceptions under FOIA law”
• Translated Arabic documents containing phrases such as “in the service of building our Eritrean homeland,” “trusteeship of our departed martyrs,” and “victory to the masses!”
• Sat in and listened to various people claim that the Juarez Cartel/La Familia/La Linea/Colombian coke lords/the Mexican military/the Mexican police/the FBI/Santa Claus are out to get them and they need asylum
  
• Learned how to use phrases like "esteeee" and "oye, dame la account number, yeah?"

All in all, this is just another one of those things on my resume that means I will never be able to run for President or get a government security clearance. Lord knows that working there, chances are I've met someone knows a guy who knows a guy who shoved another guy into an oil drum full of diesel fuel and set him in on fire because he owed Vicente Carillo Fuentes a Snickers bar.

And in spite of all that -- I kind of like it. Sure, my family is probably sick of hearing about "the system" and I should talk about other things. But the fact is that the gym isn't exactly a hotbed of activity, the gossip well from Alma Mater has run dry, and any and all crazy nights out are protected as privileged information under the Bro Code. Plus I'm at that age where I have to start watching what I say and being "respectable" and "discreet" and whatnot. As a result, Kirk's tawdry stories will go untold online, but Miguel Hakim will keep on fighting the good fight.

So yeah. In conclusion, que viva la raza!

(EXECUTIVE PRODUCER: DICK WOLF)

Couples Therapy With America

I’m starting to feel like I’m in a loveless marriage.

I want to like Obama. I really, really do. He’s nice, sweet, smart, well-dressed, and the last guy we were with was totally abusive. But sometimes – I wish he would mispronounce "nuclear." Sometimes I wish he’d grin mischievously and lie to me. And sometimes, I wish he’d do something spontaneous, like invade something, just to make us feel good for a few fleeting months.

Speaking of, you know what I don’t understand?

We invaded a country with HUGE oil reserves. And we invaded a country with VAST heroin fields.

So how did both those wars end up sucking SO BADLY? Those should have been the best wars ever!

Next time I say we invade a country with ponies. Or puppies.

Heh, No. 2

Today, someone at work was bragging that their son was high school valedictorian and offered a full college scholarship. 7 years ago, I was also valedictorian and got that same scholarship. All I said was, "Congratulations. Did you want fries with that?" and continued taking their order. FML

Courtesy of fmylife.com

Finding the Middle

I have an all-or-nothing personality. My task at this point in my life is to try and find a middle ground.

People don’t like middle grounds. We like conflict and gladiatorial bloodshed. Hell. I like conflict and gladiatorial bloodshed. But trying to point out that this is not Rome and that we cannot turn everything into Russell Crowe fighting a guy in a scary mask does not go over well with anyone, myself included. Even trying to stay neutral causes conflict. Trying to make judicious decisions, or even arguing that the world we live in is not concrete but fluid, gets you labeled as an untrustworthy fence-sitter.

Maybe I am. But to be fair, it’s not easy. Here’s what I’ve ascertained so far, sitting on my pickets.

I should probably be an atheist, but I believe in God nonetheless. I’m incredibly cynical and jaded when it comes to romance, but if my iPod were played in public all lactose intolerant persons in the near vicinity would drop dead to the ground, choked to death by cheesy Spanish love songs and the angry eminations of their own treacherous intestines.

I am both the cause of much chaos and the solution to it. Depending on the situation, I can be yin or yang, leaving me to wonder if I am a boring person with a wild side or a wild person with a boring streak. In the words of James Hilton, all things in moderation – even moderation. Dull situations turn me into the ladle that stirs the pot of excitement, but during exciting times, I am the sole voice of restraint. Perhaps one day when those sides of me balance into quiescence, I will be the ladle of restraint among my friends and neighbors in Shangri La, prodding shy cattle forward and rapping the knuckles of unrighteous.

I have a knack for thinking only of myself, of being shortsighted and egotistic, reducing my world to something "manageable." Yet under the right circumstances, I can be nuturing, protective, concerned, patrician to the point of mothering people into eating more tacos when they are clearly full. I’m told I’d be a good shrink or a good mob boss.

I am a reactionary rubber band prone to snapping clear across to the other side of the room in a fit of devil’s advocacy. I hide things in plain sight, and I tend to distrust gut feelings, both because they are uninformed and because I have IBS, so the only feelings in my gut are painful ones. I have good instincts, though. I just usually disregard them. I turned 21 a few months ago, but most people think I’m at least five years older. And married for some reason. Trying to act younger just exacerbates people’s perceptions.

I am no closer to finding the middle than when I started writing this. Maybe if I throw more rocks into the Yin-Yang pond analogy posited by Wikipedia, I can watch the ripples even out and then figure it out.

Philosophy and introspection blow.

Groans, Koans, and Vulpine Conceits

There are two simple joys in life.

The first is showing up people who radically underestimate your abilities.

The second is telling haters that you're considering turning down something they can't possibly get when it's been basically thrown into your lap. It messes with their head. Their incredulity at your Zen-like apathy will drive them nuts. All of a sudden, every word you say becomes enigmatic and your nonchalance morphs into ethereal mystique as they try to figure out if you're crazy.

Yeah. Crazy like a FOX.

May God forgive me for taking pleasure in these simple things. But justice is sweeeeet...

On Blogging

It hurts because it's true...

Caption: Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few

The Drug War Hits Home

Kind of a weird day. My mom got a whole bunch of calls this morning from her friends asking if she had "heard the news." Apparently a Mexican journalist from Durango with our last name was kidnapped and executed by Los Zetas.

Almost every Antuna can be traced back to a few villages in Durango, including my grandfather. She called him up, and from what he can gather, the man was definitely a relative. Not one of my close ones -- likely he's a second cousin once or twice removed and none of us had ever met him.

But still, it's a little weird to know that your family isn't immune to bullets from the cartel wars. I'm proud of my Mexican heritage. I treasure it. I love our language, our art, our culture, and our values. That being said, I'm glad my grandfather chose to immigrate to the U.S. I know how fortunate I am to live in a country with an imperfect but functional justice system, and that I grew up in safety. I'm also glad to know that I come from good blood, that my family is on the right side of all this, and that there are people who are braver than me and willing to stand up and speak the truth.

I'm a pretty liberal guy, but I'm conservative about drugs. Stuff like this is why. Prove to me that not a dollar from a drug's sale is going into the hands of thugs and criminals in Mexico, Colombia, Afghanistan, and Laos, and frankly, I don't care what you put in your body or what you do with your spare time. But for as long money from a "harmless" drug like pot funds corruption and killings, I don't believe that people have an inalienable right to get high.

People talk about Baghdad being scary. People talk about how the prospect of an al Qaeda attack keeps them up at night with worry. Frankly, all the Islamists in the world are chump change compared to the narcotraficantes of Mexico. A few clerics twisting the words of the Quran and shouting "Death to America" don't scare me a bit. Osama bin Laden kills in the name of God. These guys kill in the name of money. And that's what really scares me. "God" can get people to fly an airplane into a building once. Money can make people kill every night.

I'm off my soapbox. I don't know why this really got to me, but it did. R.I.P. Jose Bladimir Antuna Garcia. I never knew you, but you died a martyr's death trying to make sure people knew the truth. I take pride in knowing that we share blood, and I hope that if God one day grants me salvation, I can finally meet the man who stood up and did what was right -- because it was right.

En el nombre del Padre y del Hijo y del Espiritu Santo. Amen.

EDIT (9:12 A.M.) Associated Press story as run by the El Paso Times

Afkaari

Some disembodied meditations before I hit the sack:

* It really doesn't take a lot for me to get going on some radical, sanctimonious, quasi-socialist rant. And that scares me, because I'm supposed to be a cynical, unfeeling hipster. I mean, for God's sake, I have a goatee. If I'm NOT cynical, that that just means I'm a few darbouka lessons away from being an unwashed, barefoot hippie. And I hate hippies!

* ...okay. I secretly want to learn to play darbouka.

*With douchy inflection* The rhythms and I sojurn through the thirsty desert.
*Drum sounds* FLAK-A-WAH!

*My main tactic in arguments involves making people feel completely ashamed of what they actually believe in. As I explained to my brother Nick, "when people get up on stage and start doing their monkey dance, get up in the audience and do the monkey dance, too. When they see how ridiculous it looks, they'll sit down out of shame."

* I hate it when you talk to people with messed up lives who spout off complete bullshit and then suddenly drop unsettling nuggets of Truth (capital T). And when you put all those unsettling Truth-nuggets together in Oujia board formation, it spells out: GET A GIRLFRIEND. OR AT LEAST SOME SORT OF SIGNIFICANT OTHER FIGURE.

* To the cholos/drug dealers down the street who choose to repeatedly drive past our house at midnight on weeknights -- SHUT THE FUCK UP! And buy a damn muffler. Your "pimp" ride sounds like a Vespa with swine flu.

All My (Arab) Children

So I was talking to my friend Ons in Tunisia the other night. She had taken a Facebook quiz saying that the two of us would get married in five years and have five children. Joking around about it, I said our kids names should be Khalid, Houssem, Nour, Issa, and Bob.

She laughed, but then said she didn’t like the name “Bob” and didn’t want a son named Bob. I asked her why not.

“I’ve only known one person with that name – Bob the Sponge.”

Bob the Sponge

Heh

This bird needs to be the mascot of the social justice movement in El Paso.



Oh yeah, and Happy Halloween to the two people who read this.

Meanwhile, Back on the Ranch...

News from my alma mater, the University of North Texas. Apparently, we’re embroiled in some sort of controversy involving the campus hippie/pothead coalition and the campus Jesus-had-blue-eyes-and-hates-France lobby, and the eyes of DFW are upon us. OOO! Riveting!

ALRIIIGHT! Scrappy to the rescue! *Loads shotgun*

Basically, here’s a rundown of the story, as excellently reported by my good friend Shaina Zucker at the Dallas Morning News. A gay couple wanted to run for homecoming court. Our Student Senate said no. There were some protests. Then they had homecoming. Now, AFTER homecoming, student activists are using the power of protest to try and get the school to let two dudes ride a float down a freeway on what has to be the gayest day of the school year. And they want that to happen NEXT time.

Hey, so UNT – when’s my degree becoming more valuable again? I can’t even get a cashier job at Target in El Paso, and the only people who actually know where I went to school are over 40 and still think it’s called “North Texas State.”

Maybe when you guys build that abomination of a stadium that seats the same number of people as the old one, it will raise the university’s profile (since Texas IS a football state) and encourage rich guys who like to watch football to pay lots of shiny monies to watch our football team suck ass. We might even be able to get esteemed alum Dr. Phil to put his NAME on it! He's big shit. He has a Wikipedia page. In ARABIC! Then, once you're raking in the Benjamins, you can use that money to fund enough research to become “Tier I" and raise UNT's profile.

Or, you know – you could just let the gays do it and give me my money back.

The Drama of High School Game Shows

So I stumbled on an episode of High-Q on the local PBS affiliate. For those of you outside of El Paso, High-Q is what happens when teenaged nerds get drunk on the competitive pheromones football players emit in the hallways. It’s a gladiatorial war of wits fought with buzzers, an intellectual junk-measuring contest broadcast on public television officiated by a local TV personality commandeered for duty against their will.

And for a long time, I was king.

This is the Batsignal for when you want to know what the capital of Georgia is (American Georgia: Atlanta. Russian Georgia: T'bilisi. Bitches.)

I usually try to repress the fact that I was a nerd in high school from my memory, instead choosing to dissociate and wonder why my friends from high school only hang out at coffeeshops and absolutely refuse to go out clubbing. But watching Chapin’s team rip apart Hanks’ team made me reminisce about the good ol’ days. So here’s what I have to say about the state of High-Q today:

First of all, it’s good to see consistency. The hosts still can’t pronounce half the words in the questions. Second of all, what the hell did you do to the show? The new set is nice, purple, and futuristic, I’ll give it that. But eliminating lightning rounds AND the accompanying 1980 synth soundtrack? Big mistake. Watching nerds sweat to what sounds like Flashdance is half the fun. And please, give these kids some dignity. The concept of getting extra points for ringing in early and calling it a “power ring” was floated around my senior year, but NEVER on AIR! That just perpetuates stereotypes.

NERD: (nasally) Yessss! I got a power ring! POOOOWER!! Mr. Frodo is doooooomed…

Mostly, though, these kids have NO T.V. presence! Yes, children, the only people watching KCOS at noon on a Friday besides your parents are unemployed bums like me. That doesn’t mean we don’t care. Live a little. Back in my day, I was captain of Eastwood’s team, I made up a story one episode my senior year. When the host asked how I wanted to be introduced – and I want to say the host that episode was Caribe Devine, who currently works in Phoenix and who actually did a decent job as a reader – I told her to say that I was an Abercrombie & Fitch model who had just returned from a photo shoot on the Adriatic Sea in Croatia. AND SHE WENT FOR IT. You know what I looked like in high school? THIS…

White shirt

So why did I do it? Because I was an attention whore. And why did she do it? Because she had nothing to lose! And because it’s funny! Nerds are funny, whether you want to be or not. You might as well steer into the skid and endear yourself to the five people who actually watch the show.

Some of us still remember the seedy underbelly of the high school competitive trivia circuit. Oh the epic nerd rivalries simmering since middle school! Oh the agony of defeat most foul! O the SHIT-TALKING, the politics behind objecting to questions, the intimidation tactics, the mind games, the bawdy Mad-Libs in between rounds! Give us a taste of your secret nerd world.

And congrats, Chapin. Go celebrate with a Star Wars marathon.

My New Roommates

I graduated with my B.A. almost six months ago, but unemployment and the fact that I live with my family have kept me in a strange, suspended animation, quasi-college mindset.

For instance, in spite of the fact that it literally snowed in El Paso last night and there is still frost on the Franklins, the only place where I will wear closed-toe shoes is the gym, and that’s only because I have to. Since returning, I have also failed to adapt and develop “human” hours. My parents are still incredibly disturbed by the fact that I will eat or exercise at 9 p.m. since everyone else in the house is out cold by 9:45.

In a lot of ways, moving back in with my family…sucks. Aside from the batshit insanity (and I say that in the most loving, tender way possible), there are small things I took for granted at college that I’ve lost coming back here. College was the first time I had access to cable because my mom to this day still refuses to "cave." There were four different restaurants that were literally across the street. I could walk everywhere. I didn’t have to worry about exposed asbestos tiles in the dorm living room. We didn’t have to turn on the oven and leave the door open to warm up the building. And I never saw a single cockroach or mouse.

(The sad part is we're not poor. We are solid middle-class. We're just LAZY!)

The thing I miss most, though, is freedom and not having to answer to anyone. I’m not going to romanticize my college years. My living situation prior to graduating was less than ideal. Let’s put it this way – the day my roommate came up to tell me that he got his girlfriend pregnant, I knew that I’d probably heard that baby being conceived. However, while we weren’t particularly close, we were civil enough. He did offer me celebratory Smirnoff Ice, and I’m sure if I’d asked to join him and his lady in their athletic shower rendezvous he would have gladly welcomed the company. But more importantly, we stayed out of each other’s hair.

Yes, the paper thin walls told stories of young love. But I never had to tell him where I was going. He never questioned why I did anything. He didn’t care if I left a 7 pm and came in at 3 in the morning. And best of all, neither one of us ever charged into the other’s room announced in order to have irritating conversations.

My new roommates – they just don't get it. They're not as cool.

¿Que Onda, Mundo?

If you’re reading this, chances are you already know who I am.

If you don’t know who I am, you lead a sad, empty life. It’s okay, though. I don't judge. Much.

My name is Kirk. I was born, raised, and currently live in El Chuco. As a Chucoite, no matter how hard you try, it never seems like you can leave. You talk about making it big and how you're going to strike out to L.A. or Washington or New York. And sometimes, a few of us do manage to get away for a while. But even if you make it all the way to Africa like I did, you still somehow find yourself back at Chico's Tacos at 3 p.m. on a Thursday, eating soggy flautas floating in cheese water. Sure, you swore that you'd never go back to Chico's because they kicked those gay guys out that one time, but your friend refuses to eat anywhere else, so you really don't have a choice except to sit back and eat your double order with fries, like it or not.

That's a metaphor.

In a lot of ways, I’m a cliché hipster twenty-something. I’m unemployed. I have a liberal arts degree. I live with my parents. I’m indecisive. My life revolves around writing polemical liberal slogans into my Facebook statuses in hopes that I can goad people into fighting each other. I volunteer for a non-profit that helps immigrants. I use a messenger bag. Irony is my nicotine. In fact, that only proof I have that I’m still partially human and not a complete hipster is the shame I feel when I go to Starbucks and order a “Grahn-day mocha frappachino light.”

I even have a cliché twenty-something dirtbag goatee. To my credit, I wear it well. It makes me look ethnically ambiguous. When people ask what I am, I usually just say Lebanese. No one questions it because they don’t want to seem like racists. I also say that I’m 24. Actually, people usually just assume I’m 24 because I look old. If I tell people the truth – that I’m really just another barely legal Mexican half-breed who barely got his drinking privileges two months ago – they don’t believe me.

I went to college in the Dallas area. It's a long story, but they didn't believe I was Mexican over there, either. That worked to my advantage, though. Some people in my Spanish lit class spent an entire semester thinking that I was a full-blood Spaniard just because I could speak fluid Spanish and I wasn’t brown. If I’d known that little nugget sooner, I would have introduced myself the first day by saying that my favorite hobbies were killing Aztecs and eating tapas.

But it would have been wasted on them. Not because they wouldn’t have caught the cultural references (although they probably wouldn’t have). Rather, I think they would have heard “Yo soy” and thought it was some sort of Japanese company that sells fake milk. I didn’t go to what you would call a “good university.”

That's all you get from me for right now. This awkward introduction is over.