I was on hour “Forget It” with my Cingular phone, and gave one last call to try and figure out if there was anything I could to to resolve the fact that my Treo doesn’t send or receive email.

The support rep on the phone couldn’t hear me, and asked if he could call me on a land line. I gave him my office number.

“Um,” he said after I answered. “Is that…? The receptionist… Are you really working at Mind of Mencia?”

Within the hour he’d gotten more than two other reps on the phone, sent me an email, and just now completed a transaction to send me a completely different phone, one that will hopefully work, one that actually is more like a Sidekick, which is what I was looking for in the first place.

The perks of this job are weird and unpredictable, but I’ll take ’em.

At a bar last night when I got off of work, stee’s friend says to me: “That guy’s not even Mexican.”

That’s what people often say to me when they hear where I work, as if I’ve never met the man, and have no idea who he is. And I respond, “He never said he was.” And then they look at me like, “Yeah, but I thought he was, which makes it seem like he never corrected my thinking,” which is just — to quote Carlos — retarded.

We’re nearing the end of our run here at this show, and I’m already getting end-of-school jitters, sad that I’m running out of time with some of my favorite people. The rain has finally stopped and it’s starting to look like summer, and it’s hard to believe that one year ago I was here in this building, getting ready to go to Hot Properties. It feels like much longer than that, but it also feels like yesterday.

How many more cliches can I fit in this thing?

Next time I’ll try to write about the time Cal ran away from home and I thought he was dead.