On Hats

People treat me differently when I wear hats.

I usually can't pull off baseball hats because my giant head is shaped like a deformed crocodile egg. (And yeah, I know what a crocodile egg looks like, I used to go to zoo camp during the summers as a kid. Bitches.)

But I discovered last year that if I tilt the hat to the side just a smidge, I can pull off a frat boy look. Douchey, but socially acceptable.

Anyways, I spent all last week in Austin checking out UT Law, and in Denton, where I bought a white hat from my alma mater, Hellhole State University. I've taken a liking to it, and especially since getting a shitty, asymmetrical buzzcut, I've been wearing it pretty often.

This weekend I wore it while I was out on a food run with Malena. She even commented on how it looked "hip hop." The cashier girls at Corner Bakery refused to make eye contact, assumedly becuase I was too thug. So as we're going down Zaragosa and we pull up to the corner, this guy taking donations for one of the local Black Baptist churches spots me. With my white baseball cap. Tilted. He points and smiles. I know I'm doomed.

"BIG BALLA!!!" he yells out as he walks towards the car. "Damn you so balla you got yo woman driving you around in the car!"

"Of course," I reply. "That's how you gotta work it."

Long story short, I gave the guy a dollar and I think Malena was mildly horrified to be referred to as my "woman." She got a kick out of "big balla" though. I think it's my new nickname.

Oh and by the way I officially left the set of Law and Order: La Raza. Next adventure -- free trip to Miami. More to come.

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!

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...

Meanwhile, Back on the Ranch...

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

ALRIIIGHT! Scrappy to the rescue! *Loads shotgun*

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

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

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

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

The Drama of High School Game Shows

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

And for a long time, I was king.

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

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

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

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

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

White shirt

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

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

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