Eugenio's Blog!

Cesar Chavez, 1927-1993

In the 1993 Robert DeNiro film A Bronx Tale, Colagero says to his working-class father, “Sonny was right. The working man is a sucker.”

This week of work has been exhausting. I now have a complete case-load of clients and issues, and the attorney and I are making plans for litigation before the internship ends for me to get some court experience.

Ping pop! I have been closing cases left and right. Tear. I spit out resolutions concerning labor disputes, immigration filing, and custody battles. Hiccup! I now feel completely 100% comfortable speaking Spanish with my clients. Phew! Yes, I absolutely love onomatopoeic words.

I still have an “outreach partner,” (Felipe) where we go to visit the labor camps to provide legal services to the workers, to check on sanitary labor and housing conditions, and to make sure the farm-owner is complying with state and federal codes.

This reminds me of a politically-correct conversation I had with myself this week at work. I needed to call the County Sheriff in regards to a battery charge that occurred at a camp. The dispatch officer that I spoke with asked who the farmer was [where the incident occurred]. (Camp addresses are named in reference to the farm-owner). I answered his question with the name of the person who owns the farm. And then I started looking at the state licenses issued to the farm-owners – they are referred to as “farmers,” but they don’t farm – they don’t even supervise the farmworkers. They hire un encargado, or a crewleader, to supervise the farmworkers. Realistically speaking, the farmer does not farm – he owns. Thus, it would inaccurate and would be another stab to farmworkers everywhere (stab #9,809,843,743,439,880,853) to call the farm-owner a “farmer.”

I am having difficulty trying to get in contact with a client because she does not have a line telephone or a cellular telephone. I have been trying to visit her at her camp this whole week, but she has never been there when I visit. I have visited at 8 A.M., 9 P.M., and during lunch, but everytime I go, I speak with the same neighbor, and her response is always the same: “Maria está trabajando.” These people work like no other.

I mentioned this to my supervisor at our daily meeting today. Felipe asked me if I would be interested in visiting the camp on Sunday, when she would be most likely home before or after Church. I told Felipe and my supervisor that I will be in Chicago this weekend, but I would be interested in visiting on Monday. Felipe remembered that this weekend was a holiday and said [in Spanish], “Oh, I forgot it was a holiday weekend.”

My supervisor then tells me that I cannot go to visit this weekend [In English], saying “Oh, we’re very patriotic here.” We chuckle. [Both my supervisor and Felipe have been in the United States since the 1980s, yet remain loyal to their Mexican Citizenship.]

Funnier part: Immediately after my supervisor’s “patriotic” claim, Felipe says [In English, but with an accent], “Yes, it is the only day where it is accepted . . . I mean encouraged, to play with explosives.” We busted out laughing; it was hilarious.

So, yes, I will be in Chicago this weekend for a surprise birthday party (maybe it’s a retirement/birthday party) for my dad. I hope posting this to the Internet doesn’t blow the surprise. For a person who barely understands how to use touch-tone telephone dialing and would probably have an aneurysm if he saw a digital camera, somehow I think I am safe from my web-surfing father accessing this blog.

I have this suspicion that this weekend is more than just a birthday party for my dad. We’ll see. I’ll keep my opinions to myself – I don’t want to pull a Nostradamus.

I watched a speech/rally on C-SPAN delivered by Green Party Presidential Candidate David Cobb. For more information, please visit here. This guy and party ain’t no joke. He impressed me, but I can still be convinced to vote for Nader or Kerry.

Oh, by the way, “There is no such thing as defeat in non-violence.” Cesar Chavez.

Downtown Dixon, Illinois.

This past weekend was Holly & Scott’s wedding in Dixon, Illinois. Holly, Scott and I all lived in the same dormitory complex at Illinois my freshman year. When we didn’t live together, we set aside a day of the week for the remaining years to meet up for lunch. Every Friday, we were active in financially supporting the Rice Garden at the Union. Holly and I student-taught at the same high school senior year. Nothing brings people closer than bashing your students, err – I mean, discussing what learning and teaching strategies work best for each individual adolescent.

I drove from Fremont to Dixon, and it was quite the trip. I have never experienced such Chicago traffic – it seriously took me five hours to travel through Chicagoland, from Northwest Indiana to Interstate 88. It was beyond horrible. Driving back from Chicago to Fremont, Northwest Indiana, again, was disgustingly over-trafficked. Is that a word?

The drive time was worth it to see Holly & Scott on their big day. I knew it was an honor to be a member of a bridal party. I truly felt honored. Holly looked incredibly beautiful (no surprise), and Scott looked okay.

Just kidding, my man, you know you're hot.

I had the greatest time once I finally arrived in Dixon. Rehearsal at the Church of the Brethren was an experience completely different than a traditional Catholic rehearsal. No bowing, no genuflecting, no praying to Mary – I know what you’re thinking . . . Church of the Brothel.

Dinner Friday was beyond delicious. Holly’s uncle owns this Mexican restaurant, and I ordered grilled shrimp fajitas with onions and green peppers. At first I was skeptical about ordering shrimp in Rock Falls/Sterling, but if I eat sushi religiously in Iowa City, Iowa, I figured I shouldn’t be too concerned about cooked seafood. As it turned out, the shrimp was great. What was also great was the special hot sauce conjured up by the restaurant owner. You see, Scott’s step-dad is this lover of spicy food, and the already hot green and red sauce on the table simply was dull to his taste buds. So the manager brings out this orange-gold sauce in a bowl, and dude, it was unreal. I have no idea how the step-dad’s intestines function.

For some deranged reason, all of us groomsmen were nervous before the wedding. I am not talking about your usual butterflies; I am talking about pacing back and forth in the preparation room. The service lasted no more than 30 minutes, and I managed not to cry. I was really close when Holly’s dad “gave” Holly to Scott. That, with the vows coming in a close second, is definitely the most emotional moment for any wedding.

To top off the night, the reception was a blast. My date Teresa and I took advantage of the free beer, and as a result, we got our dance-groove-on. Teresa was a great date, and the star of table 14, despite the BFE location. (If you know what BFE stands for, you must be born in the 70s). She managed to get hit-on hard core yet again. I swear, I don't think I've ever been out with her where she didn't get majorly hit on. I don't know what guys see in her . . . psych! I know, we fell out . . .

We were fortunate in that Jenni’s boyfriend promised to stay sober and drive from the Church to the reception. Jenni was the bridesmaid I stood up with. She, too, lived in the same dorm freshman year.

The funniest part of the night was when one of Holly’s cousins comes up to me and asks what part of Mexico I’m from.

“I’m sorry, I’m Italian.”

“No, I heard you speak Spanish. And plus, you don’t look Italian.”

Thinking quickly about which statement to question, “What do you mean ‘look Italian?’” I asked.

“Oh, you know . . . big, hairy, overly-masculine.”

Yes, ethnic stereotypes dehumanize – where is my book bag when I need it?

Regardless, she turned out to be uber-cool, and we talked with her husband. She is Mexican, and he is Puerto Rican. Traditionally, these are ethnicities that can be troubled by marriage. At first, she admitted, there were some familial tensions, but they’re cool with it now. We talked for a while in Spanish, and made fun of words that are exclusive to Spain, Mexico, and Puerto Rico, respectively. And, what would a wedding reception be like without a discussion about Latino diversity, integration, and inter-ethnicity relationships?

Holly & Scott are off to the Caribbean for the honeymoon . . . congratulations and bon voyage!

Wednesday night, the law firm of Robison, Curphey & O’Connell sponsored a “cruise” on the Maumee River in Toledo and neighboring areas. The event was open to all Toledo-area law clerks and new associates, and it was organized by the Toledo Bar Association.

The reason I place cruise in quotation marks is that, usually the term connotes notions of touring, beautiful scenery, and clean breathing air. Unfortunately, I think Toledo is marketing itself as the industrial powerhouse of the Midwest. As a result, instead of seeing green cliffs off the river, we saw huge soybean and corn factories, gigantic transporting ships, and manufacturing construction. Delicious.

Most of the fellow clerks were University of Toledo Law students, and they were great. I mean, whenever you throw free beer and wine at students in their 20s after eight hours of legal work, fun times will just occur. We discussed the struggles of first year life, we threw around some hypothetical Torts scenarios, and made fun of current marketing trends.

For example, what is the point of the Oral-B® individual finger brush? Who would really brush their teeth in the metro? “Oh, I’m waiting for the train – I’ll brush my teeth.” What is this? Yeah, not embarrassing at all.

Secondly, Ziploc’s® one snap lid? Who has only one finger to use? And wouldn’t you still seal all four corners just to make sure it was safe? I could understand an elbow slam snap lid, but a finger?

However, we also gave props to some invention breakthroughs. For instance, the Glad® Press ‘n Seal™ product was a big hit, as was the “showerhead” Saran Wrap® to snaps over bowls without it sticking to itself.

The funniest part of the night was when a few of us were practicing our Spanish and all of us refused to say Toledo, Ohio with a Spanish accent. Our reasoning was the same: Toledo, Ohio & Toledo, Spain, although technically “sister cities,” ought not to be given the same pronunciation. It would be geographically devaluing, culturally depriving, and linguistically cheapening. We said even when we speak to our Spanish-speaking clients about Toledo, Ohio, we totally anglicize it on purpose.

After the cruise, we headed over to this hip Jazz club downtown. The music was phenomenal and the group was hilarious, but my Beam & Coke was $7 – what is this, Manhattan?

Completely unrelated (great segway, I know), I was watching FOXNews Live earlier in the week, and I thank goodness for DVR. The guest was CIA operative Wayne Simmons. He was talking about the recent beheadings in Southwest Asia (Eurocentrically referred to as the Middle East). Amongst his ramble, he said and I quote, “Americans in the west are genetically good people.” For the love of . . . uhhhh . . . Toledo, someone please explain this to me.

Saturday was the first real day where I felt bonded with Ohio. A fellow law clerk, her friend, and I attended the Symposium on Media Literacy in Education and Allied Media Conference at Bowling Green State University, located about 30 miles west of Fremont.

The conference offered numerous group sessions throughout the morning with a variety of topics, including “Culture as a Tool of Resistance” and “How to Plan and Promote Radical Art Events.” I attended a session entitled “Fostering a Culture of Inclusion in Independent Media.” There were about twenty of us in the group. There were a few Ph.D. students and professors in Communications and Journalism. Everyone else was a writer, editor, or founder of their own independent media organization – many of them white women with unshaven underarms, dreadlocks, and hemp writing pads. There I was, with my designer blue jeans, vintage polo shirt, and Puma® running shoes.

I felt a little out of place at first since I have never been on the production side of media formation, but it seemed to work to my advantage as many of them had questions for me, the consumer.

I shared with them my major concern about the far left. I told them that I read independent media, but often times, it is too much for me to handle. I support LGBT rights, diversity programs, and universal health care, but as soon as I don’t call for the immediate termination of U.S. involvement in Iraq or for the immediate proletariat revolution, all of the sudden I am a Pat Robertson.

I feel the left has this weird fascination with extremism. Don’t get me wrong – members of the right have this fascination, too. But since I identify with the left, it seems more apparent to me. There is this competition among the liberals to see who can be the most liberal, with anarchy being on the far left. I don’t play that game any more, and it’s brought additional distance from me to the far left.

There was a special room designated for vendors – there were probably around 60 or 70 independent sellers, many of them selling anarchist and communists posters, wristbands, t-shirts, whatnot. I spoke with a few of the vendors, and this is what they do – like, to live. They don’t have steady jobs – they just travel to conference to rally to protest selling their . . . “goods,” I guess. They’re capitalizing, albeit unsuccessfully, on the left. It just seems like a horrible way to live.

I did manage to buy three bumper stickers for my wall back at school: “Unamerican,” “This is Freedom?” and “Let My People Go.” These stickers will accompany my propaganda-decorated room.

After the inclusion session and lunch, the gals and I watched some independent films, many of them about U.S. imperialism and the War on Terror. It was interesting, but I am sure Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11 will be better. We also watched this film about the importance of organic foods and the harm of pesticides. It was good, but not my thing. I think once I have money, I will turn into an organic yuppie. Until then, I’ll be fine with digesting insect repellant.

I was in such an activist mood after the Conference, I wrote a letter to the Board of Trustees at the University of Illinois to retire “Chief” Illiniwek. I still really care about the retirement of Chief Illiniwek. I know I should “move on” as I no longer attend UIUC, but gosh – it’s blatantly wrong. *UIUC alumni, if you want a copy of my letter to pass along to the BOT, let me know. I used the wording from the recent June 17 BOT meeting to make most of my points. Here’s a glimpse: “For a university that preaches multiculturalism and encourages diversity programming and curriculum, it is clear to me that the retirement of Chief Illiniwek epitomizes the ‘values espoused and practiced by the University.’”

Yknow something weird is going on when you spend your Sunday afternoon watching CMT's Top Twenty Countdown.

“Hey I'm a redneck woman
And I ain't no high class broad
I'm just a product of my raisin’
And I say ‘hey y'all’ and ‘Yee Haw’”

Gretchen Wilson, “Redneck Woman”

Before I commence, allow me to fully discredit a recent statement in A’s blog alleging that I will not update my blog once classes resume in the fall. Rest assured, this is nothing more than flowery rhetoric and holds no substantive truth. Your knowledge of Tax Law scares me not. I think my readers will all agree the sentence “Yooz a ho” seems justified here.

Ustedes saben . . . excuse me – Y’all know about my recent adventure with Freddy’s Laundromat last weekend. Well, to continue in the tradition of Gene looking like an urban fool in this rural social purgatory, I decided to pay a visit to the most famous hair stylist in all of Fremont. Mario Tricoci himself wishes he could work at . . . (drum roll, please) . . . Gary’s Barber Shop on Walnut Street.

My outreach partner, Felipe, at the office recommended this place, and his hair is half way decent, so I figured I would give it a shot Friday after work. I asked Felipe if I should call for an appointment, but he said it shouldn’t be too busy on a Friday afternoon. Fair enough.

So I walked into the shop on Walnut Street around 5:15. Gary had someone in the chair, and there were two gentlemen waiting. Gary provided a nice “Good Afternoon,” and I responded with a respectful, “Yo yo, bling bling.”

Seeing the two other dudes waiting, I asked Gary if I can just make an appointment for either later in the afternoon or Saturday morning. Mistake 1.

You see, Gary doesn’t schedule appointments. If you want a haircut, you have to wait like everyone else. I know what you’re thinking – “no cut for you!” Ah, Seinfeld.

Thank goodness I think before I talk – I was going to say, “Oh, Gar, can you just call me when it’s my turn? I’ll be next door getting a manicure.” Luckily, I bit my tongue.

Still, no big deal, I thought. I’ll just wait like everyone else – I’ll grab a seat and talk with the locals. Mistake 2.

The 5 o’clock Toledo Newscast was on the TV set, and the top story was the beheading of Paul Johnson, Jr. in Saudi Arabia. People in his hometown are understandably furious and saddened about the loss, but unfortunately, they have decided to express their feelings through prejudice sentiments.

The community’s police in New Jersey has “dealt with a series of racist incidents in the past year against people perceived as being Arabs.” [http://www.cnn.com/2004/US/Northeast/06/18/johnson.hometown.reut/index.html] [emphasis added]. This is not what a Southern Italian American wants to hear after working in the Ohio sun for three consecutive weeks.

The CNN article has a resident quoted as saying, “In this community, yes. They don't like outsiders.” [Id.] Great attitude, Little Egg Harbor, New Jersey.

The people at the barbershop, however, just gave an expected “sick extremist” snare and shook their heads. I was going to ask if I could change the channel to FOXNews, for the real fair & balanced report. I didn’t.

After thirty minutes or so, Gary gave me the nice head tilt and told me to take the throne. “Only if you’re my queen,” I thought.

Concerning the men before me, Gary didn’t ask what style the customers wanted. I figured they’re regulars. No no.

I am definitely not a regular to Gary’s Barber Shop, and he just started shaving my sides with his clippers. “Yo yo, Robocut, ain’t you gonna ast me wha I want?” Mistake 3.

“Oh, I just assumed you wanted ‘regular.’”

Regular? What does that mean?

“Uhh, I want half an inch on the sides.” I really wanted three-eighths of an inch, but I had a feeling Gary was not an arithmetic maharishi.

“I don’t know if my clippers know what a half an inch is – how about a regular?”

Gosh, does Fremont have its own system of measurement? As if the English and Metric versions weren’t enough . . .

“Fine.” I give up. You can’t beat the Haircut Nazi.

Happy 17th Birthday, ROSARIO!

“With rusted cars and weepin' willows,
Keepin' watch out in the yard.
Just a snapshot of downhome Dixie,
Could be anywhere you are.”

Buddy Jewell, “Sweet Southern Comfort”

Okay, so the first two weeks of the clerkship were definitely an "absorb as much labor and immigration law as you possibly can" time period. Dude, it was intense. I cannot wait until I take immigration and labor law academically -- hopefully, I will rock the class.

So this week, the attorneys felt that the nice two week cram session of immigration and labor law would be adequate training for handling my own clients. That's right -- my own clients. Pretty scary, eh? I am officially the "co-counsel" for two clients! I am fortunate in that these two cases are amazingly interesting.

My first client's name is . . . dang! Lawyer/Client confidentiality rule! Darn morals. Anyway, I'll tell you his story & issue. So, he's 24 and his wife is 15. There is no typographical error -- age fifteen. They were married in Texas in 2002 (you can do the math).

He is a U.S. citizen and she is a Mexican citizen who wants U.S. citizenship status. She has been in the U.S. since age 4, but her parents never petitioned for U.S. citizenship on her behalf. In 1997, Congress passed legislation tightening U.S. citizenship requirements. Now, a person must earn 125% above national poverty guideline figures. [As of right now, a family of one is at poverty is he/she makes around $9,600 or less.]

She is pregnant, so this particular family has three members, but they also claim a fourth member in taxes because he takes care of his nephew. However, he does not have custody of the nephew. So, tax wise, there are four members, but legally, there are only three members. But in 2003, he did not claim his wife as a dependent because they were "fighting," so her parents claimed her as a dependent.

Now, she wants to either use her parents to get U.S. citizenship status (her dad is a permanent resident) or her husband, but there are minimal and shaky financial ties in the family. I know, I know -- there are more issues in this case than LASA v. Southern Builders, Inc. (1967). Still, it's really interesting.

The second case deals with education law, my true love. This woman successfully passed 4 of 5 GED tests in TX in February 2004. She has moved to OH as a migrant and wishes to take the 5th test here to complete her GED. When she went to register for the test, the state of OH refused to honor her TX scores.

I understand that education is a state matter (thank you, 10th Amendment), but the GED
diploma needs to honored by all states, so why would GED scores be any different? If I take 25 credit hours at the University of Texas, hopefully those 25 credit hours will be accepted by the University of Illinois. Then again, the state may have the prerogative to deny "foreign" scores, or any scores for that matter. I just got the case yesterday. I will post the answer as soon as I reach it. Try not to panic.

So today, while outreaching to the labor camps, I confused some Spanish words. I knew this was bound to happen, but I picked a doozie of a confusion.

My outreach partner often complements the little kids running around the camps barefoot throwing beer bottles at each other. Yknow . . . something quick like "que bonito," or whatever.

Anyway, my outreach partner (who is a native of Mexico) said "que chula" this afternoon to a girl. I was unfamiliar with this term, so I asked him what it meant. He said it is very vernacular, especially for people from Southern Mexico. It means "how pretty."

I, wanting to fit in & all, decided to use the term at the next camp. Lo and behold, I confused the term "chula" [pretty] with "chota" [an inflammatory derogatory term for the I.N.S.]. So yes, in a rural labor camp in Ottawa County, Ohio, where nationally 70% of farmworkers are undocumented workers, I said the word "chota."

I am fortunate I didn't cause a national labor shortage.

At first the kids were a bit scared, but then my partner started to laugh. Whew! That was a close one.

"We have to keep our majesty happy." Stephanie Tanner.

Entonces, voy a hablar en español. No, no I better not.

I drove out to Clyde, Ohio [population 6,064] Sunday afternoon to get some laundry done, and I realized that I really need to get out more. I want to check out the scene in Clyde one day. I want a vintage t-shirt from some establishment on it – maybe the ice cream shop. I was truly hoping for the sale of t-shirts at the laundromat today. Wouldn’t that be awesome? A t-shirt with a washing machine and “Freddy’s Laundromat – Clyde, Ohio.” Too rad, too bad.

So at the laundromat, I met this kid named James. He drives this pimped out silver Cadillac. I was outside reading [one of my summer books, Blood of My Blood: The Dilemma of Italian-Americans] after putting my clothes in the washer, and we just started talking. James is the 22-year old manager at Freddy’s Laundromat. Apparently, managers at laundromats get a pretty nice earning.

After talking with James for about thirty minutes, we hit the religion topic. Yes, I know – don’t talk about religion or politics after first meeting someone. Well, James brought it up. I felt comfortable sharing with James my non-belief in supernatural forces, and he shared his strong Pentecostal faith and how his father is a preacher. I have come to the realization that these people in Ohio are quite the religious types. That leaves me with three invitations to three separate churches in town – the Catholic one (invitation from my 65-year old attorney/outreach partner), the Christian Nondenominational one (invitation from a 35-year old paralegal at the office), and this James / Pentecostal one. Do I have a sign that says “I need Church” taped on me somewhere? (No yag yag remarks, please).

The relationship between me and James reached new heights as I filed a complaint with him about the drying machines. The washers cost $1.50 a load, which I thought was a bit on the DKNY-side myself. The dryers, however, were only a quarter. Okay, I figured it balances out.

So after my washing was done, I threw my clothes in the dryer and put in a quarter, went back outside to talk with James, and checked back 40 minutes later. The dryer was stopped, but the clothes were still wet. “Hmph,” I said, scratching my head. I went outside and asked James why my clothes were still wet. “How many quarters did you put in?” he asked.

“Dude, it says 25 cent.” And yeah, I made sure I used the singular form.

“Yeah, for 10 minutes,” James said.

“I ain’t see no sign dat say dat!”

“That’s how all laundromats work.”

I plugged in more quarters and everything turned out fine. Later on in the day, I called Colleen to make fun of this ludacris Ohio practice. Colleen, however, informed me that this was indeed a standard, and not ludacris, practice. I told her she be actin’ a fool.

“I don’t have to do nothing but stay black and die.” Principal Joe Clark, played by Morgan Freeman in Lean on Me.

Okay, so I have been bribed to add a posting to my blog. I have been offered five shots of Three Wise Men. Great, so I will post and puke -- my favorite P's. This blogging experience better be as rewarding and self-fulfilling as my friends claim.

I have received hate speech from my friends complaining that visitors to their sites often click on a link to my site and are utterly disappointed with the one "testing" posting. I have told them just to erase the link. However, they have referred to many court cases emphasizing the Time/Place/Manner Rule in hate speech regulation. You win.

There is no point in trying to catch up on the last 22 years of my life, so I will just fast forward to June 1, 2004 -- the day I started working in Fremont, Ohio 43420.

The drive to Fremont on May 30 [I know this is before June 1, but just stay with me] was quite the treat. I woke up at 4:15 AM CDT to shower, eat, and load the car to leave at 5:30 AM CDT. I needed to meet with the landlady promptly at 12:30 PM EDT, so I figured I would allot extra driving time just so I wouldn't be freaking out. I arrived about an hour early.

I knew I was running ahead of schedule going through the great state of Indiana, so I decided to stop and just chill at the travel plazas off Interstate 90/80. There were two in Indiana and one in Ohio. The one in Ohio had a sign at the entrance that said No Guns Permitted, and it went into the law code and that even if the gun is unloaded, you still cannot bring it into the travel plaza. It scared me in two ways: (1) Is Ohio so gun-friendly that it has to tell its residents that certain areas of gun possession are prohibited? (2) The guy in Indiana that asked me “Is that a gun in your pocket?” could have been literally serious.

My office in Fremont has a posting with similar sign.

I don't like guns.

So, let's discuss why I'm in Fremont. We all know the importance and significance of the 2L summer [See, A's June 5 posting]. But I think the 1L summer is just important to obtain exposure into some legal field. Plus, I might be in Chicago my whole life, and I'll be in Iowa in August. This would be my last opportunity to go somewhere completely random for 11 weeks. Fremont, Ohio -- what could be more random?

Advocates for Basic Legal Equality and Legal Aid of Western Ohio are sister organizations that fund and maintain the Migrant Farmworker Program I am working with for the summer. We deal with mainly labor and immigration laws, buoccasionallyly there are education and domestic violence issues that occur as well. Approximately 70% of migrant farmworkers are undocumented / no tienen papeles. Typical clients complaints include:

1. The farm owner isn't paying me the minimum wage.
2. I need legal papers / identification.
3. I am being exposed to harmful pesticides and rodents.
4. My housing situation is not safe.
5. There is unclean drinking water at the camps.
6. My husband hits me.
7. My child has been denied admittance into primary or secondary school.

Pretty interesting, huh? I think so . . .

Okay, enough for one day.

"Okay, but if your ears do fall off, I get your Walkman®." Michelle Tanner.