My room, despite my best efforts, is deteriorating into its usual chaotic and filth-ridden state.

I can’t think of words in English or Spanish anymore. I think I have early onset Alzheimer’s. It runs in the family. It took me three minutes to figure out that I wanted to say deteriorate. If looked it up in dictionary, I’d probably realize I’m using it incorrectly.

Spanish AP style is messing with my brain. Will I ever be able to decide whether a punctuation point goes inside or outside of a quotation mark again?

AP Style, MLA Style, APA style, Spanish style. Fuck it. I panic every time I have to insert a comma. Sometimes you need them, sometimes you don’t. It all depends on what style you’re writing in. If I put style in quotation marks, would that be unnecessary? Probably.

I’ve been cranking out dailies and been chastised for not having story ideas. It’s rather limiting to only be able to report on Hispanic issues. I’ve pitched a couple story ideas, but some have been rejected because the area of town I proposed reporting on is not predominantly Hispanic.

I still like Big D despite missing D.C. something terrible now that D.C. is the bureau’s newest intern. Only today I was comparing the DMN’s diner with the California Grill next door to 1090 Vermont. I used to dine at Cosi, Tryst, Open City and Mr. Chen’s Organic Chinese. I too used to ride the red line to Farragut North and Woodley Park. Ah, D.C. How I was so lucky to be there, but I threw it all away. Today I erased something I had recorded from a press conference held by Senator Biden. SENATOR BIDEN, people! Senator Biden. He attempted to run for president, you know? That’s a big fucking deal. CNN was even talking about Biden being the possible choice for VP for Obama. I sat no more than 10 feet away from him inside Dirksen.

For my assignment today I had to go to an editorial board meeting with the Bishop of Big D. I was sitting with all the big shots of the paper. It was so incredibly intimidating. The fourth flour of the building is a different world entirely. The story I wrote was disappointing considering it was completely rewritten. I hate it when that happens. It’s so demoralizing. The editor told me that I did my job as a reporter though. I guess I never thought of it that way. It was my job to report, his job to make the final product whichever way he saw fit.

I’ve also joined the fit club at work on whim. I must lose weight or I will I bring the entire second floor of the DMN down with me. It’ a competition and I’ve been teamed with everyone who works on that floor.

What else?

There was also a fire drill today late in the afternoon. This one reporter yelled out “I’m on deadline!”

He’d rather burst into flames if only it means that he got his story in on time. Too funny.

Although I suppose all the Fiesta grocery stores and Latino this and that signs littered all over the area is a bit reminiscent of J-town, it’s still missing the Mexican soldiers decked out in all black holding giant machines guns on every corner and watching you bag your groceries. So, sorry peeps; Oak Cliff is not Juarez. In fact, it’s more like Kern place on crack, the good crack, with rancheras blasting from a couple houses.

Thus far, my vagabond to Dallas experience has been rather pleasant. And, I have to say, I was a goddamn trooper when I drove the 8 hours to the middle of Texas. I was terrified of driving. I had visions of ending up decapitated on a lonely stretch of highway, my head being pecked at by vultures. You see, I’ve had an accident on I-10 before. While traveling with a beast to Austin, another beast appeared in the middle of the road. Though I’ve never quite figured out what caused my accident, I’ve narrowed it down to either a giant armadillo, a wild boar, or as one of my dearest friends suspected, a bison.

I tried to swerve to avoid the wildebeest, but I over corrected and ending up spinning every which way on Interstate 10.

Alas, I survived both trips! The latest thanks to Monica and the song “Bad Girls” by Donna Summer. I was lucky enough to have been carrying a CD of terrible disco songs which included that gem on my venture. I’m not sure whether it’s the “Toot toot, heyyyyyy, beep beep” interspersed throughout the song, or what sounds like a sports whistle in the background, but the sheer ridiculousness of the song kept me awake and reenergized once my eyelids began to get heavy, and I started running into the shoulders of I-10.

Have a listen!

Things have also gone rather well at work. Everyone is nice! Wow, what a concept. And I’ve already met a Pulitzer prize-winning photog. Thanks, Shemale (BT). Speaking Spanish makes me happy. My first story gets published tomorrow. I feel rather productive cranking out a daily, despite it being a silly story about a children’s art installation. Spanish is rather difficult though, I end up make some wack ass translations. I just don’t have the vocabulary. I was reading Cien Años De Soledad, and I swear I had to look up at least 10 words on the first page. Truculente!! That’s a good one.

My only complaint is that I need a GPS navigation system. Being lost is Dallas traffic is nooooooo fun. I promise. I have to text Google from my phone all the time and it doesn’t always focus.

Well that’s it for my cheesy update for my friends and family who read this. I believe I am hanging out Ben, who I have renamed Shemale, tonight.

Oh, by the way, an opossum died by way of vehicle that I was a passenger in the other night. What luck I have with animals!

Some photos:

Mi Trabajito

The Bahn

The caballito that we almost were killed for in San Antonio

I’ll no longer be a resident in the lovely EP at 6 a.m. Friday morning. I’ll start with a drive across Texas with friends, and then begin my 13-week stint a Spanish-language journalist! Chinnnnn. Spanish is scary. To prep me for my new scary job, I’m going to spend a few days hitting up Fiesta Texas and Schlitterbahn before rejoining the workforce in the field I love to hate.

All these entries have been pretty ridiculous lately. They are little more than “comments.” I can’t promise the next ones won’t be as equally ridiculous, but hopefully they’ll have a little more substance. With Ben pushing me along, I’m sure I’ll do a couple of blog-worthy things and even have a snapshot or two to go along with it, or an awesome award-winning photo if I force Ben to make the photos. I’ll probably also bite Ivan’s style and swipe whatever he’s doing at SI. Because why wouldn’t a photog for Sports Illustrated be doing the most awesome shit ever?

Ivan suggested I change the name of this blog to The Grassy Knoll, but I think I’ll stick Doors Opening despite no longer living in D.C. It is sort of uplifting, no? Here’s to a new life in Dallas, at least for 13 weeks.

Peace, bitches!

The article is pretty cool, but this part struck me as odd:

“Justice says their goal was ‘to open a debate, raise questions, something done regularly by cinema, literature and contemporary art.’ Yet YouTube is unlike any of those other media. There is no buying your ticket, no shifting in your seat with popcorn in hand; no stiff new book to crack open; no grappling with an artist’s meaning in solemn galleries. Framed by neither the walls of a cinema or museum, nor the written page, YouTube is a kind of non-context, an ether from which one draws images designed for rapid, repeated consumption. Content of great value mixes with bullies terrorizing their classmates, public flatulence and some six-year-old’s piano recital.”

Maybe I’m just being ridiculous, but, to me, it’s making it seem like only the people who have access “solemn galleries” and the latest literary masterpieces and indie films can raise questions and debate contemporary society. Granted, Youtube is no PBS, but I don’t think that just because a message is sent through an alternative medium it should lose all its credibility. Hmmm.

After my Dallas internship, in all seriousness, I am switching careers. Being a mechanic is the way to go. I cannot handle not knowing anything about the contraption that I spend a considerable amount of time in.

See ya, Journalism!

Hello, mechanic school!

Because of my early return, I missed Beach House at the Rock n’ Roll Hotel, the same venue where St. Vincent played. The show was on a Friday night and I left early on Saturday. I even had tickets, but I chose to spend my last day in D.C. getting drunk at happy hour, packing and going out with my fellow interns for my final rendez-vous with Adams Morgan.

I should have stayed another week, another day at least. I should have seen Beach House and dined at Mama Ayesha’s with D.C.’s finest until we all met Helen Thomas.