Minnesotan Interlopers

So we had a group of six law students come into the office from Minnesota for the week, meaning that for the first time in six months, there were other DUDES in the legal department my age (ish).

Don't get me wrong, I love and respect all my female coworkers as vibrant, complex human beings even though they're almost all somehow vegetarian and have way too many "feelings". But sometimes, it's nice to be surrounded by people who can appreciate things like Googling the phrase "Hmong princess" or burrito-eating contests.

(Just FYI...no one wins in a burrito-eating contest. Especially when the burritos are 18 inches long. There goes my "diet.")

The Baker told me not to get too attached, lest I end up like the kid who grows up on the farm and gets attached to the family pig, only to be disappointed when it comes time to brutally slaughter the pig to make bacon. (Unless he's some pig -- a terrific, radiant, humble pig.)

But when I left work today and said goodbye, I was surprisingly unsentimental. Probably because I'M DONE WITH VOLUNTEER WORK IN A WEEK! My foray into immigration law is coming to a close, as I have a tentative lead on a job. It's a shaky one, though. Worst case scenario, I go back to being "unemployed" for a couple of weeks, go to Waco and DFW, and then go back to volunteering so I don't look like a lazy bum even though I totally am one.

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!!!

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!

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.

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)

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.

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.

¿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.