On Smoking

Had lunch with my scientist uncle again today -- the one of algae oil repute.

Somehow we got on the topic of smoking. I have a checkered past involving smoking. It's what happens when you spend a lot of time around Arabs, Mexicans, journalists, and "arteests".

Anyways, after the typical "cigarettes are death!!!" moralistic condemnation from all sides, Uncle starts talking about how in college, his calculus teacher used to smoke cigars in class. Big, fat, probably Cuban cigars. With the illicit glee of a 12-year-old boy telling his friends about how he saw boobies for the first time, Uncle takes a quick glance around Applebee's and quietly intones that one time, he smoked. He says this with pride, like he's a true rebel.

His nerd friends and him decided one day to grab a bunch of cigars and try to smoke them. Uncle says he was afraid to inhale but finally worked up the nerve to do so. He ended up coughing, and then he puked. He says this with a glint in his eyes, reliving the cheap thrill of youthful vomiting. I smile and nod my head, silently validating his need to be seen as dangerous. Deep down inside, though, there's only one thing running through my head:

Pussy.

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..."

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.