Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
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...
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: ...
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: ...
Saturday, November 28, 2009
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..."
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..."
Thursday, November 26, 2009
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".
* 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".
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
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*
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*
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
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 inopening 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 theconference 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...
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"
Anyways, the immigration lawyers in El Paso take on these almost impossible asylum cases because they believe in
Witnesses ramble. The interpreter translates incomprehensible legalese from English to Spanish. You freeze your ass off in the
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...
Monday, November 23, 2009
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...
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...
Sunday, November 22, 2009
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-secondbrag 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.
Yours truly is in the fetching hatThe 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.
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
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.
Friday, November 20, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
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
- 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?"
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)
Monday, November 9, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
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
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.
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.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
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...
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...
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
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
Caption: Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so fewTuesday, November 3, 2009
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
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
Monday, November 2, 2009
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.
* 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.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
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
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
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