Algae for Oil

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

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

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

"That's a good question."

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

The algae decided our fate in a microsecond: extermination

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

If I *had* money, that is.

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.

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.

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.