#mexicuted!

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"…The thought of someone believing you deserve fewer rights because of who you are is depressing. But, then you realize that by doing what you do everyday, you prove to them you are unstoppable.  They can spend their time trying to pass laws to take away your rights and silence your voice, but all you have to do is live your lives right in their faces and it proves we simply cannot be stopped."

I’d been bouncing between this and Hasan Minhaj on TDS (My dad’s also out of the country and when HM says, “Claro que sí,” I lose it a little,) and with each new or refreshed heartbreak, national or personal, there little callback to Mr. Burns.

Indestructible.

Getting things done.

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Aggression and Ignorance.

(My potential genetic destiny to sound like DtE is kept under wraps mostly by actively trying to keep my register down somewhere around 260 Hz, and seldom asking about "untimely interjections".  It's like my own personal GATTACA up in here.)

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Pizzicato!

I used to play my former officemate’s violin sometimes when I was in lab in the middle of the night. (The immigrant instrumental trifecta meant that as a kid I did play violin, but I only really was ever good at picking things out by ear: I foolishly resisted the development of any technical skills in that arena).

I have been riding a wave of nostalgia these last few days.

El Guapo is so handsome. It’s in the name, but still. Oh, man.

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(Moe doesn't even look at the menu.)

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While, perhaps, seeming incongruous in a larger context, this IS the traditional falafel making music in this household.

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"Remember, when you are a student you pass nasty gasses because of the scaring."

After breakfast, my dad admonishes me to grade more gently, given my snarkily panicked comment about these kids becoming nurses*.  It is, like most things, some manner of translation of a thought that surely flows more smoothly in Arabic.  My mom goes through a full red pen for each exam she gives.  I balked at this when she threw 5 empty pens at me before finding one with ink, but as I grade some of her lab reports, I totally get it.  She is tabulating things to herself in a whisper in Spanish.  My giddiness at creating a spreadsheet for results induces a little bit of pedagogical nostalgia, as the London Symphony plays in the background.  A robot vacuum scuttles against something across the house. 

Oddly enough, this is probably the quintessential and best-case home-home weekend situation. 

*The measurement errors are hilarious and terrifying. Imagine someone telling you (not in jest) that your finger is 342 meters long. It's fascinating. 

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Memory Cascade! It's not a well-worn path, but surely it was an inevitable route.

Jesusita en Chihuahua*, Revolution in Santo Poco, ...Ausgezeichnet. 

Surely this day will end in the land of chocolate. 

*I see a little Jesus in every Chihuahua: especially when they make with the sermons while mounting things.  That may be as far as I can push into music-related multi-lingual ecumenical dog-humor.  

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Ohman, I was totally cool until I remembered my dr-uncle doing the dance.  He looks exactly like El Guapo, and once threw a bottle at my head when I was a kid and got in between him and the TV.  Formative memory! 

"Amigos! Amigos! Amigos!"  Day 488 in the South:  Still do not own a banjo.  Hearing this just made my fingers remember being raw from plucking at my violin strings.  Pizzicato is synonymous with pain.  Surely I'd get over it quick.