"When are you going to write something about the Cuban kid?" people ask me.

I don't know. What's his name? Alien? To tell you the truth, I haven't been all that interested. It's just another custody battle, albeit rife with more than the usual two or three lunatics.

Still, when you throw in a day off on Tuesday you're bound to get my attention. "Show your solidarity for the people of Miami and don't go to work this Tuesday." Sure, I can do that. Hell, I'll do it next week too, cause I'm solid like stone.

Here's the way I see it: Boy boards boat to America, land of opportunity. Boy winds up in crack house in Miami. Boy decides Cuba isn't so bad after all.

Many people thought AP photoghrapher Alan Diaz's photo told the inside story, but I thought the video of the neighborhood told an even larger story. "Come hang out with the homeys awhile," the neighborhood seemed to say. "We're just throwing back a few shots till the next hurricane hits."

We learned one thing from the Elia Kazan (what's his name?) incident. Or I should say, we relearned it: If you live in a low-rent district and dare fuck with the U.S. government, Janet Reno will kick your bible-lovin' ass from here to perdition.

Don't make me mention this again.

Speaking of English as a second language, I went to San Antonio last weekend for Fiesta. Fiesta, Spanish for party, takes place every year in S.A. and can be compared to the Mardi Gras in New Orleans. In other words, it's another excuse to get drunk. I'm sure there's a deeper, more symbolic meaning to the celebration, but not so much as to ruin it. Even Easter -- which of course signifies how Jesus came back from 40 days and 40 nights in the woods with a bucket of bunny eggs and a Virginia ham -- doesn't seem to get in the way of the festivities.

Before diving into Fiesta, my girlfriend and I took a day trip to SeaWorld, where for a piddling $32 a day you can watch mammals perform like trick fish. Almost everywhere you go in SeaWorld you're faced with huge lines. Huge lines to pay the money and walk through the gate. Huge lines to get into see Shamu the Whale. Ice cream stand? A clusterfuck. Bathrooms? Standing room only (I'm just speaking for the men).

But the line for the beer concession? About three people. No lines whatsoever. It was more like SeaBizarroWorld to me. Needless to say, I like SeaWorld. I like SeaWorld a lot.

After securing a nice V-neck sunburn, my girlfriend and I said goodbye to Shamu the Whale, Seamore the Sea Lion, Danny the Dolphin and, in my case, Harvey the Rabbit and headed to the Sheraton Hotel. We got a great deal on the room, which overlooked San Antonio's famous Riverwalk. While other hotels along the river charge as much as $250 a night, our room only cost $129 and when we called to confirm it, they took another ten bucks off the price. Hmmm.

When we finally found the Sheraton (I always get lost in San Antonio) we discovered why the rooms came at such a bargain. An Easter Bible convention booked three or four floors and swarms of teenagers in yellow tee shirts covered the hotel like killer bees on a rotten pineapple. Three Bible inscriptions were etched on the back of the tee shirts which read, "Jesus will show you the way" and "We are living sacrifices, so don't fuck with us" and "When Jesus can't get a room at the Alamo, he stays at the Sheraton."

Great. Now we could count on a crowded pool, a noisy room and parties with no booze but plenty of witnesses.

We showered, shaved (I think she shaved something), changed clothes and headed for Boudro's for dinner.Since we missed the hotel shuttle, we decided to walk to the restaurant, which sat less than a mile from the hotel anyway. The Boudro's sign on Commerce told us we should take the elevator from the street down to the Riverwalk. Very Maltese Falcon. The elevator delivered us to the back door of Boudro's and that's why we got lost later.It wasn't from too much booze (as one of us theorized) or too much time in the sun (my second excuse). It was that evil, evil elevator. But definitely not the booze.

One of my San Antonio readers told me I should drink nothing but brown boracho during Fiesta, but I like margaritas. Besides being festive, margaritas make the perfect ugly-tourist-in-town holiday drink and match my road uniform: Levi's shorts, Hawaiian shirts, cheap sunglasses, a baseball cap with the words PRESS emblazoned on the front and lots of sun screen for the mug. A vacation isn't a vacation unless I get mistaken for Jimmy Buffet at least three times.

When we finished dinner, I led us through the Riverwalk and on to the Fiesta carnival. I only made one mistake. Should have turned left, turned right instead. We walked for hours along the river, every so often emerging on the streets like sewer rats in search of corn-dog remnants. No Fiesta in sight. No hotel in sight either.

"Let's keep walking," I said. It was either walk or call a cab, and hailing a taxi would only admit defeat. Soon the restaurants, clubs and hotels disappeared and gave way to the occasional drunk in a pea coat passed out on a slab of city concrete.

But wait? What's this up ahead? Could it be a sign from god? Close enough, it was three kids in yellow tee shirts, loping along the Riverwalk on their way back to the Sheraton. As we got closer I could make out the words on one of the tee shirts: "Jesus will show you the way."

Sonofabitch if he didn't.

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STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 2000 by Mike Jasper.