I'm first and foremost a Nash fan

As you may have noticed, I am now running on two blogs. I let this one die a bit because the newbie is my attempt to keep a pulse on the political sphere. Nonetheless, I don’t want to mix business with pleasure. Of course as most geeky kids who couldn’t grow past 5’6” and help the Suns overcome the West and bring a championship to a city that is in desperate need for a makeover, my business and pleasure are (drum roll)… writing.

The only difference, I want one blog to stand for poetic justice and the other to morph into what I hope will be a fair and balanced portrayal of news and reporting.

The only time I might be completely bias is this time of year. Yes! Magic might be the best point guard of all time, but Steve Nash comes a close second. No hardware, but the man has talent, passion and heart. I must admit that before this morning, I questioned the two-time MVP’s motivation and true desire to chase the most coveted prize in professional basketball, but after today, I won’t question that anymore.

I stopped watching the game yesterday midway through the third quarter because based on the tempo; I wasn’t ready for another heartbreaking season. You know the seasons before the Gasol trade where the Suns were the clear favorite to win but just couldn’t muster enough size to get to the finals. The style made famous by Mike D’Antoni known as “Seven seconds or less,” was fun but it wasn’t enough.

I got into the Suns for two reasons. One Kobe and Shaq started to act like infants following a 2004 debacle. Kobe got all badass and tatted himself-up amid sexual allegations — an image he swore against and shun early in his Laker years. The other reason…? My nickname in high school was Nash. Out of flattery, I started to watch his style of play in Dallas and quickly fell in love with the Canadian.

Then he moved to Phoenix and I moved to Phoenix. Yes sir we have a connection Nash you just don’t know it.

Nonetheless, despite our cosmic link, every year was the same. Win a bunch of games in the regular season but come short — literally — in the playoffs. The one year that I swore with all the fiber of my being that the Suns were going to win it all, “Big Shot” Bob takes out Nash.

Another bitter end only this time It wasn’t lack of effort but a league’s poor decision to suspend most of the Suns’ starting lineup and a disappointing move by, Horry, a player I liked so much…Everyone in Phoenix that I watched the sport with always said, “Well maybe next year.”

…eventually the New York Yankees of the NBA realized Tinsel Town had infinite cap space and signed the most underrated center in the league…the Spaniard Paul Gasol. When I heard the news, I knew it was over. Paul is something else and for a moment, I was all aboard the Lakers Express, but my nickname, at least at heart, was still Nash.

This year they made me believe again. Yesterday, through my own fault I bought the notion that the Suns had no chance. I missed a nail bitter and Alvin Gentry hugging a crying Nash. That image spoke a thousand words and personified the many seasons I followed Steve. The man I thought just played for the fun of it, showed the heart of a champion. Nash, 113 playoff games without a ring, but he is the best point-guard of this era and second all-time. A true ambassador of the sport—screw the haters, Steve Nash is the greatest point guard of all-time. He will be an instant hall of famer, not when he takes off his jersey, but the moment the fourth-quarter buzzer goes off his final season.

(Picture is mine. Took it last year at a game that, despite the loss, made me feel like a child again)

SpeakeasyDC Looking for Diversity

This is from Amy Sedman coordinator at SpeakeasyDC she is looking for more Hispanic Diversity at her shows. The following is a brief written by Saidman regarding information about the Washington D.C. based Organization

SpeakeasyDC is as non-profit performing arts organization based in Washington, DC that is dedicated to the simple art of telling true stories on stage. We produce over 20 shows a year including a monthly open mic series and a number of special events. We offer extensive coaching and a variety of classes and learning opportunities each year.

We would love to hear more Latino voices on our stage. All are welcome to perform at our monthly open mic storytelling series. It takes place on the 2nd Tuesday of every month in Washington, DC (U Street, NW) and serves an audience of over 3000 a year. Each night there is a theme (such as “Survivor: Stories about getting by, toughing it out and working the system”). Free coaching is provided.
You can see videos, listen to our podcast, sign up to tell a story, and find out more at http://www.speakeasydc.org/.

For those not quite ready to jump right on stage, SpeakeasyDC offers a variety of classes. Our next four-week comprehensive courses–Storytelling 101—will begin on June 15, 2010, and our next scheduled one-day Storytelling Boot Camp will take place on July 31, 2010. Both classes are for beginners. We are offering a 25% discount on classes to anyone who mentions Hispanic Link through the November 30, 2010. Email info@speakeasydc.org and include “Hispanic Link Discount” in the subject.

A Chicano Moves to the Suburbs--I like this column

Column No. 1482
HISPANIC LINK
March 26, 1989
A CHICANO MOVES TO THE SUBURBS
By William O. Medina
I grew up in the barrio, where most of my neighbors ate tamales for Christmas and went to a Catholic church. Spanish drowned out English at the local market, and no one was ashamed to hang wet clothing form the family laundry line. I viewed my World form the perspective of a lifer, someone who would spend his entire earthly existence in the barrio.
Then last year I moved to the white suburbs of Southern California’s Riverside County. Friends and relatives congratulated me on doing the right thing. Home-ownership is something they considered a wise investment.
But a home is more than an investment, and for someone like me who doesn’t understand the logia of Homeowner Association rules that prohibit leaving your garage door open, the suburbs remain strange.
My new neighborhood is replete with block parties that spew the aroma of barbecued steaks and spare ribs. I always decline invitations to attend — for valid reasons. My precinct is overwhelmingly Republican; I’ve marched on picket lines boycotting grapes and protested against Ronald Reagan’s cuts to education health and other critical social programs.
I’m afraid my feelings may be construed by my neighbors as anti-American. It would be suburban suicide for me to engage in any backyard small talk.
My new neighbors work hard during the week and view weekends as mini-vacations. Come Friday, laden with boats, jet skis and motorcycles, they pilot their campers toward the nearest blue-collar playgrounds. Skimming lake waters at frightening speeds, climbing Suicide Hill and sleeping on hard dirt helps them forget about their 40-hour weeks.
I can’t relate to that. Like my homeboys back in the barrio, I still work most weekends and don’t have such toys of escape. Barrio residents can’t afford the cost of fleeing from their monotony or anxieties. When I was growing up, we went to the city park during summer vacation or stayed at home inventing simplistic games using a water hose. While we placed, our parents sat Ander a tree and watched.
Among my new neighbors, a recurring question is: “What do you do for a living?” Obviously, if you can afford payments on a new home in Southern California, you must have a job. In the barrio, such inquiries are taboo. The jobs have lees dignity and status; layoffs are not uncommon. It often takes tow menial jobs to make ends meet. Asking about a person’s job can cause embarrassment. We shun people who boast about how important or rich they are.
My suburban neighbors deny that their yards compete, but they do. For a while, I became involved in the tacit competition. I wanted the greenest and cleanest yard. A magazine article told me that sprinklers were harsh on infant grass, so I spent untold hours catering my first lawn by hand, hurrying outside each morning to welcome virgin blades of grass that had emerged during the night.
As I stood watching my green carpet grow, one neighbor would visit me and share the secrets that were going to make him fabulously wealthy. He had figured it out, down to the minute, how much Money he earned.
In the barrio, we had concerns that took precedence over luxuries and the health of our plants. There was the constant whining noise of Butcher Boys, a burrito factory across the street that made sitting outdoors unbearable. Enjoying our flower and vegetable gardens at night became increasingly hazardous with the proliferation of gang violence.
In my new neighborhood, we complain about uninvited dogs in the garden. In my old, the concern was uninvited bullets.
In the barrio, we never fretted over commuter traffic. Here in suburban Moreno Valley, the freeways are like parking lots every morning and evening, thousands of vehicles strung bumper to bumper. I sometimes sense that my roots, once deep in barrio clay, are inching into my vitamin-fed lawn and large monthly house payment. I fear that some future summer I might weaken and join a neighbor’s backyard barbecue party.
But I am a transplant and must remain a product of my past. In a mad, nostalgic moment, I may yet defy my neighbors and leave my garage door open all day long. I can never move completely out of the barrio.
(William O. Medina manages a family restaurant in Riverside, California.)
Copyright 1989, Hispanic Link News Service.

Then I see Piolín

I move clandestine with my camera through the vast crowd, click, click, click. I get on the media risers — click. I make my way down and look for interesting angles and people… click. Drums, chanting, praying, the anthem Sí se puede, and a tint of humidity in the air, I’m sweating now. The images are colorful and alive. I’m on my knees, up high, down low and all over — yup, this is another shooting assignment, but with my emotions attached to every click.
This is personal. I’m a immigrant covering immigration. I somehow manage to keep it together— until I see Piolín.
For those who don’t know who he is, he is a syndicated radio host. At the rally, he was the last speaker...

…But back home Piolín is also the one my father and I would listen to every morning.

When he came down from the stage, I wasn’t a reporter anymore. I was a fan I turned off my camera. “Piolín, can you send a shout-out to my father? He listens to you every morning from Phoenix.” He did.
I ran home, called my dad and played the greeting to him. I could tell from his voice he was exited.
On my day at the rally, I can still be a fan

Link to pictures: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2475028&id=3436036&l=c3f225fd70

The Fragments that got me here

Phoenix—November 27, 2009 my life is about to take an unexpected turn. It’s a Friday morning; my brothers and cousin are watching Star Trek. I’m sitting in the sofa putting the last touches on my letter of intent and resume. I had gotten the edits from Lisa a day or two earlier, now I had the old and too familiar feeling of a deadline breathing down my neck.

I read line by line, making sure “there” isn’t “their” and “whether” isn’t “weather.”

I pace around the living room, go upstairs come down stairs, grab a snack, pacing, back and forth—“Is it ready?” “Do I have a shot?”

Send

Half-hour later my nerves ease up a bit. I realize I’m back to being me again. My phone goes off….

“202….”

--Hello this is Charlie Ericksen…

(Holy crap)

“…We would like to schedule an interview with you later today…”

The interview came and went.

24 hours later I’m coming home from Sahuaro Park dreading the rain because it cancelled a soccer game—one that took two trips to get to with no game ever taking place.

I’m driving back looking at the cloudy horizon on the 101 North. What a sight.

My phone rings…

“202…”

--We just got done checking your sources…you are the type of person we want to be working for us this spring…

My life hasn’t been this good,

What would have happened if I played soccer? Perfection perhaps.

Real men must not fear the kitchen

I'm a hot piece of man, but I must admit that with all my perfections I still need to work out some kinks.

Today I’m trying my hand at cooking dinner—and I mean not just making me some eggs, but real “honey, I’m home cooking.”

I got the Foreman grill out, cut the meat into pieces, per internet advice, marinated the meat as best I could using—vinegar, lemon, oranges, and some foreign kitchen spice substance. I then put the marinated slices on the grill and waited. It smelled good, but it tasted horrendous. Actually, the texture was doable, but it was too dry. There goes sixth dollars worth of meat.

The rice—I am still waiting to see, but if my previous venture is any indicator—I’m dead meat!

I’ve always feared the kitchen, not because of the cultural machismo that plague many men, but because I grew with a family of sixth.

This meant that if I screwed up six dollars worth of meat, I would be exiled and excommunicated from my family—and that’s assuming I got off lightly. My point is if six people don’t eat on account of someone’s Rachel Ray venture, there would be blood in the house and I don’t mean the movie.

Father screaming: “There goes $7.50 cents of meat, 2 percent of the electric bill, and one-tenth of the gas bill.”

Mother screams: “You’ve burned my spatula and darken my fork,”

Sister: “What were you thinking?”

Brothers: “Thanks a lot ass.”

But my hope and call to action is simply—Men do not fear the kitchen.

In my case, it is the only thing keeping me from being a Sexy Deity. I've met my match, my worthy adversary, but assuming I don't go broke, I intend on overcoming it.

Shifting

Every, evening, just before the sun sets he leaves his apartment, walks four blocks to the nearby plaza and sits outside a café. This is a common ritual, except sometimes he grades papers, sometimes he writes briefs, and sometimes he simply looks at his computer to see what others have said about his freelanced articles. Everyday, however, he sits, drinks a warm coffee and becomes an observer.

Today he proofs and edits a Sunday morning sermon that his good friend will give later in the week. Before going over the piece, he sits and stares as the people as they pass. In the early evening, he notices the after school students going into the library, children leaving with their mothers, asking them if they could read a particular children's book before going to bed. As the sun sets, the plaza drifts from a cool afternoon breeze to a sea of streetlights and lamppost illuminating a shifting crowd—the age demographic has changed. Now the kids are older. They resemble students he teaches Monday and Wednesday at the city’s community college.

By now, he has enjoyed the transient motion, finished his coffee, typed the edits for his friend’s sermon, and pulled out the literature papers that he has to finish grading by tonight.

There she is. His one inconsistency in an otherwise perfect world—she is the one person that has thrown his world out of sync and into chaos. She has dark wavy hair y los ojos de una gitana. He melts just at the sight of them. In her, he sees adventure, vitality and freedom—everything he lacks.

They have exchanged brief conversations before, but today she is with her crowd of usual friends. He is too involved in meeting deadline. In a moment, his eyes tire. He looks away from his papers for a second and looks up. She stares back at him. The silent stare is enough to speak volumes of what they feel.

She is Muslim

He is Christian

Before the night is over, she makes her way to him.

—Do you think your God would forgive you if, in the name of Love, you gave up his name?

He smiles. Gets up, puts his papers in his bag, without ever taking his eyes away from her. He met deadline, pulls his chair in. They walk away from the well-lit plaza in a perfect silhouette.

Parallel Universe---An Oldie but a Goodie

Lights out, center stage, the ref blows the whistle the ball is in play. It touches my fingertips.

Ten seconds on the clock. I dribble the ball. No one is open.

Nine, I find my teammate.

Eight, he can’t get a shot. I move above the three-point line.

Seven, he passes.

Six, it’s on me again. Two defenders come to guard me.

Five the crowd gets on its feet. Four, the purple and gold uniform is pulled, as I break free from the defense.

Three, I plant my feet behind the three point line and leave my defender behind.

Two, the ball goes up.

One…the buzzer goes off…. Swish!

Growing up with my grandparents in Nicaragua my grandpa wrote a letter to my mom who, at the time, was living in California with my dad and two brothers. I was in Nicaragua because when my parents moved there were too many “What ifs” in regards to my premature birth.

I didn’t know the letter existed until 16 years later when my mom read it aloud one evening. As I listened, I remembered how my life changed years earlier when I came to the U.S. and found a new passion.

I am about 8-years old, outside in the yard bouncing a basketball. I practiced my jump shots, layups and three-pointers. The ball bounces off the asphalt. I run before it bounces again… Swish, I can hear the ball spring, it echoes. This time I go further, swish, the asphalt sounds like a hardwood floor.

“Come watch a movie,” my brother calls from the inside. He comes outside with a wide smile like someone who just won 600 Chuck E. Cheese tickets in one sitting. "My dad just got HBO, let's go inside and see what movies are on."

"No, thanks, I want to keep practicing.”

"Come on, man. That's all you do, all day, don’t be a loser.”

"Yeah, well, all you do is watch TV all day, so leave me alone."

As he made his way back to the house, I realized we were different. I like sports. He likes cinema. I want to be a ball player he wants to be Spielberg.

I keep dribbling the ball. The asphalt, the bounce and the dirt on my nails and palms become part of a child-like euphoria.

I want to be like Grant Hill and Allen Iverson. That’s all that mattered. No television, no cartoons, just the game.

A few months later, we were coming home. As dad pulled in with our boxy grey Volvo we noticed we couldn’t park. The neighborhood kids were in the middle of a pick-up game. The 5-foot Iron Gate which dad always locked to keep this sort of thing from happening did little to nothing to deter them from hopping over. Our court was the heart of the neighborhood.

"Can you park outside, sir?”

"Sure" my dad said.

"We are about to finish"

"Okay"

After we got out of the car I remember feeling disillusioned. "It's my court, it’s mine. I worked too hard and for too long not to be able to play.”

For too long I’ve wanted to play with them, not watch them or cheer them from the sideline.
It was then when I realized I would never be as good as my ambitions. This sport would only extend its invitation to a spectator, an outsider looking in, and one that would never play but live vicariously only through watching.

Years later I am in the living room. We were sitting down as my mom reads my grandpa’s letter. The closing lines written in Spanish:

Dentro de un mes ira al Kinder lo que nos dará una mayor oportunidad para
ver su desarrollo. En cuanto a su altura nada se puede hacer si tomamos en
cuenta la altura de sus dos abuelas sin necesidad de verlo cualquiera puede
inferir que no podrá jugar básquet con los Pistones de Detroit.

…In English

In a month he will start kindergarten, which will give us a better
opportunity to see his development. With regard to his height, there’s nothing
we can do if we take into account the height of both his grandmothers. It
doesn’t take much imagination to rule out the possibility that he will ever play
for the Detroit Pistons

We live in a parallel universe. My grandfather died just about a year before I picked up a ball.

Boxer Briefs-Never enough of a good thing

B4 I begin I want to thank Diane and Catie for giving me advice on my dilemma yesterday. But now...for something completely different.

This may sound a little intimate and perhaps a bit dirty, but I have a deep appreciation for boxer briefs. First, I don't think you can ever have enough boxers. Second, the right pair makes all the difference, and lastly, my relationship with them can be best as described using the following phrases:

• Long Term Commitment
• Longevity

I grew up short and poor which meant that I would buy boxers that in a John Stockton era would be considered shorts. Therefore, my boxers would last a few years b4 being decommissioned. So as you would have it. I share a bond with most of the fellas I have now. I've had them for years!

I was going through my clothes and I realized one of my veteran briefs was in bad shape. Farewell amigo It was a hell of a bumpy ride.

So there you have it. If we can over the fact that I'm talking about underwear--now you know what to get me for X-mas, B-Day, or any other occassion that might put you in the giving mood...

BOXERS

Did I do right by this--Do I have a say?

I occasionally google myself to see if my stories have been getting much play. Lately I discovered that my immigration pieced was linked via-blog (Thank you citizen journalists wannabes) to USA Today. Click here

I need your help deciding whether this was right or wrong. I felt empowered to defend my work and decided to fight back some of the heat my story received. Too bad I accidently posted it twice, because now it will be cached two times forever more.

But my dilemma and my question is--did I do right by this?

Someone posted anonymously the following comment about my story:

What – the – heck is wrong with our society today. Over the years, Republicans gave tacit approval to illegal immigration to benefit various corporate contributors. Democrats give resulting 'soft-hearted' approval to people here illegally because of social problems. Why can't we respect our Laws, like every other country does!

It's not just our leaders that are at fault. We, The People need to make our voices heard! Why wasn't there a 'Public Outrage” against our country's previous administration when we attacked another country for no reason. Why do we feel no need to unite against religious leader's extortion of our country's Congressional / Senatorial representatives. Why do we feel no love or affection for American “Labor”, letting Congressional / Corporate leaders gut our system of worker's rights, and even ship our jobs overseas merely to increase the profit margin. All in the Orwellian name of Free Trade... sort-of like its the Patriotic thing to do.
We have been forced to view even the smallest hourly wage increase by workers as Inflationary. Yet, we as citizens and investors have not responded negatively enough to the Millions / Billions / Trillions of dollars handed to corporate leaders, lawyers, politicians, and now Bankers and Wall Street speculators that do nothing to create real Wealth.

Well, that 1.5 Trillion talked about in this article is merely a red-herring. We have high unemployment now and cannot afford to give jobs to people who failed to respect our country enough to enter legally. We have a way to admit refugees, that is not the issue. And there are plenty of actual law-abiding individuals who might appreciate having a job, and legally create that 1.5 Trillion in growth over the next ten years.

I felt like Eminem for a moment and decide to take a citizen stance and defend myself:

This is what I responded:

I know this is late, but thanks very much for reading my column. I always appreciated when someone reads my work, but to the person that went on a rant about how illegal immigrants should be deported and not given a helping hand, I just have a few suggestions.

1. Like me, make sure you address yourself by your real name and not anonymously. If you are going to criticize someone, the least you can do is be honorable and show your true colors--do not hide behind a wall of secrecy.

I have a lot of respect for your viewpoints but when you hide your name, it undermines your integrity and it is very hard to take you seriously.

2. My numbers are not red herring. I backed up my research with various sources including the CATO institute. Again, if you knew anything about journalism you would know that journalist do it with at least two sources and they uphold the belief that a story needs to be balanced, credible and have integrity. We do not hide our sources and we definitely do not hide our names.

THE ULTIMATUM FOR MY ACTIONS?

If you guys think I overstepped my boundaries I will promise to stop inserting my personal opinions on stuff that happens in both my personal and professional life---this blog included.

The Long Mile

When I was in the sixth grade, my best friend, with whom I developed such a close bond that he is now like a cousin, was in charge of one thing. He was suppose to be my mentor in middle school so that I wouldn't be lost and marginalized.

A few weeks into the gig, my cousin realized hanging out with me was a social deterrent. He started to give me the cold shoulder, hanging out with his own friends and leaving me alone.

Needless to say that the next year. I was independent and fully capable of hanging out with my own friends. I no longer needed a safety net. I had learned the first rule of social survival--no one is going to make crap easy for you. No matter how close someone is, ultimately you are on your own.

There's a line in All the President's Men, Redford's character says to Hoffman:

"I don't mind what you did, I mind the way you did it."

In short, I don't mind what my cousin did, I mind the way he did it. But when this is all said and done I lay here with the full comfort of knowing one thing--I'm the best at what I do.

There's no question. There's no competition and there's no second guessing it. If you try to compete with me I will beat you. I might do it gradually, suddenly or without warning, but make no mistake about it--I will win.

I always try to find role models that are older. I'm the oldest of four so I constantly try to get better by seeing how older people have dealt with similar situations. I take their criticism. I absorb their feedback and find ways to improve.

Today was my first co-authored piece. I spent 14 hours on the office, but I can tell you my piece was the better half. I was co-authoring a piece with a seasoned reporter.

They say sex is far better than any drug or any high. I don't know if that's true but I do know this.

My social life can be a meager and pitiful occupation

My personal life can be a mere venting of emotional blogspace

I deal with rejections constantly

But my love, the thing I do for 14 hours-a-day, my drive is unparalleled. Stack me up against Cronkite, Williams, Cooper, Ramos, Woodward or Jennings and I'll hang with the best of them.

The only thing I'm ever guilty of is being competitive. The only thing I can ever be accused of, is trying to be the best and the most successful.

Take these words as fuel to criticize me or encourage me, it don't make a bit of difference.

The modern woes of technology and the stress of a sloppy deadline

I made it a point to write one of these everyday, but technology and fatigue made that impossible. I want to learn on how to gather information fairly quickly and turn a story with immediacy, but because this a weekly one of my main weaknesses is slowly resurfacing.

Once I let a story mellow for a day, I fall into a pattern. One day, Two days, Three days--You get the idea I suppose.

But That's why I'm here right? To learn?

"I get home tired and depleted. You call and give me strength, then I'm left alone with only my thoughts and yet another sleepless night, only to wait for your rejuvenation once again."

Go Cards! and Quelf

I'm glad the Cards won, but unlike last year I don't think they have the elements in place to take it all the way, not with the Saints waiting anyway.

Shout out to my boy Nestor. Stay strong and don't forget who you are. You'll be in my prayers always. Shout out to Catie for meeting Jeter in Tampa today. I would have asked him for a profile story for the Ledger--but that's just me=)

The rest of the Scripps Howard students came in today so the next couple of months should be fun. It will be interesting to see how three guys act once our other roommate joins the mix.

I've noticed the girls are on top of their cleaning duties. I've tried to make this place look presentable but it still looks like a crack house. Either that or I think we men are way too territorial to compromise and work together effectively--we'll see hopefully we are not going at each other throats in the coming weeks.

I played Quelf today for the first time and I'm far beyond convinced that you have to be on drugs to enjoy that game.

Good Night--and as always I stay fresh and undeniably sexy

Holocaust

I know I'm late but I think I can still make my pacific coast deadline. I went to the Holocaust museum today. It was a good closure to my desire for a conversation about the subject. As some of you might know I recently finished reading Survival.

The impact of the book was so great that I've been wanting to talk about it and reflect on it for about two months now.

I've always been fascinated about the Holocaust because to me the actions taken by the Nazis seem so inhumane that I couldn't wrap my head around why humanity is often times so cruel. Magda's book added a twist to it because she told it from a female perspective. By doing this she magnified the psychological humiliation that these innocent people suffered.

I'm simply at a lost of words. But thankful that I got to see the things that up until a few months ago, I only read about.

Up in the air

My editor cracks me up. This evening when he was confronted about his political affiliation he said.

"I'm not a democrat, I am a journalist."

At almost 80 he won't show bias. Beautiful

I do realize I may be overshooting my daily blog rituals regarding my stay at DC, but when you have days like these it's kind of hard not to share with people the experience.

First off my second day on the job taught me a few things about DC

1. Grocery bags are five cents each

2. I walked about three miles today and saw a bunch of Bank of America branches an infinite amount of Starbucks, the presidential motorcade but not a single Wells Fargo.

Meaning: I'm screwed. But the day got a little better.

The office where I'm working is located inside a 10-floor apartment complex. My publisher and his son live on the seventh and operate their daily business in an office on the first-floor lobby.

The restrooms are right next to the office, but if one so desired to handle their business they would need a key to get in. Our keys (one for the gents and one for the ladies) are pinned to the hangers of a shelf in the office.

Earlier today I used the restroom. I went in, put the restroom keys in my pocket, handled my business, went back to office, and carried on with my day....

After work I went to my editor's apartment to have dinner. We ate, I had a beer and excused myself after about an hour of conversation.

I went outside hopped on the bus and came home to the apartment. I reach into my pocket for my keys only to find I was holding the restroom keys.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'll let you figure out what my stream of consciousness was thinking at that point. You can fill out my thoughts and verbs on that dotted line thank you very much.

I hopped on the bus, went back to the seventh floor. Ask them for the keys to the office. Went down to the office. Passed by the shelf where we hang the keys to the bathroom.

BINGO

I got my keys hopped on a bus, bought some lotion for my croc-looking skin and came to the apartment.

Some times I'm a clueless bimbo. Now I know why men marry. They can't figure crap out on their own. Every girl I met always seems to be thinking ahead. They could be messy, an emotional chaos, but even in their worse days they are always thinking ten steps ahead. I can't even plan the next two seconds of my life let alone figure out anything else.

I think we become better with women because they make you get it together or at least appear like you have some composure.

So wherever you are come find me. I'm a mess.

The Art of Deceit: Am I good looking or do I just play one on TV

My editor is disappointed. He saw the headshot I sent him. The one with me standing in front of a brick wall and he thought I was a little "gringuito" (White Boy) looking dude and figured I was a good-looking kid. This morning, my first day on the job, he gets on the phone and says. "Luis is our new reporter, I thought he was better looking. I'm disappointed."


So there you go, lesson learned: I have my moments, but they are just that MOMENTS

Adios Phoenix

Phoenix,

Me acuerdo cuando me trajiste de el abismo e incertidumbre. Cuado tus climas calidos y desiertos me invitaron a un nuevo comienzo. (Si es la verdad) Muchos compañeros se quedaron a corta distancia.

Los triunfos y todas sus decepciones se quedaron plantadas a media década, con solo un constante: El viaje hacia el este por lo cual fue acompañado por nada mas que desierto y calor.

Al año después abandone tu calido y sofocante abrazado para ver si mis sueños podían cumplirse en un temperamento mas agradable. Eso no fue el caso.

Al año después me llamaste otra vez. Como un perro derrotado quise buscar una nueva vida. Y Phoenix me la diste.

En mi carrera

En mis inspiraciones

En mi vida espiritual

USC es la universidad de mi sueños pero ASU es donde mis sueños se hicieron realidad.

Hasta el éxito y triunfo siempre.

I know Che Guevara was one of the most overly dramatic writers of his time. So in just to mess with the legacy of this icon I made my own.

USC is the school of my dreams but ASU is where my dreams came true