F.F.F.

Forced Family Fun, or as the Golemo children call them, "Triple-F" nights.

I just got back from the yearly Golemo Family Mandatory Retreat. Every year, for at least two days, our family does something over the winter break. You don't have to be alive, but you have to show up. Usually Mommacho rents out a cabin somewhere and we bring food, chips, hot cocoa and enough board games to annoy even the Parker-Bradley brothers. True to form, we always complain before-hand but have a great time when we actually show up.

Make the best of a bad situation. With parents like mine, its a mantra.

Before we all started moving off to college, my parents would occasionally spring a FFF on us during the week like nail in a floorboard snagging our brand new socks. It doesn't matter what "plans" we had, "family comes first." And when I say it doesn't matter what we had planned, I mean it. Unless it was a graded school event, prom, or similar matter, my father didn't care. FFF came first.

If he was in a charitable mood, and the look on our face was particularly surrendering, we were allowed to call our friends and cancel our trips to the pool, study dates and dentist appointments. And we were even given permission, when my mom wasn't around, to use the excuse, "my father is a sanctimonious asshole, that's why I can't come."

It used to annoy me, but now I'm glad my father and mother were such ruthless jerks about it all. They helped me to understand that, for the most part, outside friendships are fleeting. Johnny down the street might be fun to hang out with now, but there is no way he could be more important to me than family. And young Suzy may be waiting at Dairy Queen now for me to come flirt with her, but there's no way she's more important than family. When the whole world's coming down on my head, my friends will leave, hell, my faith may even leave. But my family will always be my family.

Thank you GOD for giving me sanctimonious assholes for parents.

Christmas Noogies

"MOOOOOOOOOOM! Neil's cussing at me in French again!"

"MOOOOOOOOOOM! Ben's in the Army!"

What is it about being around my family that brings out the pre-pubescent in me? I'm a college student -no, a graduate student. I've supposedly grown up since being an undergrad (all of 4 months ago). So how is it that I can go from writing 20 pages of pure genius on "The Language of Mediocrity in Higher Education: Being the Second best Italian Restaurant in Town" to finding myself in "time out" at the age of 23?

For 11 months of the year, I am an expert in conflict resolution. It is what I do. As a CL, I kept the towel-snapping and late-night pillow-fights to a bare minimum. As a Graduate Assistant with Baylor Student-Athlete Services, (take a moment to genuflect) it is my job, at times, to calmly explain to a 250lb+ offensive lineman that playing with the exposed wires from a light switch fixture that's being worked upon really isn't such a good idea and perhaps his time would be better spent studying for his English final.

So how is it that at the first "Nerdo Neilie-Wheelie!" from my older sister, my fists are balled and I'm showing off the latest in cursing terminology?

But its not all so bad. Being able to hug my mom at any moment is pretty sweet. I swear, everytime still, when I smell the woman, I'm 7 again and curled up in her lap. And believe it or not, the woman can still give me pause with the shout of "Neil-Edward-Golemo!" or even worse, the dreaded phrase: "wait til your father comes home."

So why is this? Is there a magic line somewhere between Waco and Hamilton wherein none of my maturity may pass? Maybe it's the cartoonish Jesus Christ billboard sign reading "This Blood's for you" somewhere in Missouri...

In this house, I can be myself. I know love like everyone should know, free of strings attached and clauses or conditions. Yes, my house is a verbal minefield. But it is only so because I know there is no action upon this earth that I could ever commit for which my family hasn't already forgiven me. I know this, and so does my family. Ben can be grumpy and we'll only laugh and try to make him smile. My dad can yell and we'll only let him feel like he's the boss. Kate can be sarcastic and we'll marvel at her wit. Beth can be dramatic, and we'll play along. Mom can nag and, with rolled eyes, we'll comply. And I can completely disregard everyone's feelings and they will only continue to bless me by listening to rambling story after rambling story after rambling story after rambling story...

Hamilton is no longer my home, but it will always be the place to which I return. It would be a horrible place for me to live, but it will always be an amazing place to have been from. However this house will always feel like love, and the people who live there -if only for a couple of weeks a year- will always hold my heart.

Right now, it's 12:35 AM on a very young Christmas Eve. The living room is dark save for a touch-lamp we have to turn on/off by twisting the bulb in and out in the far corner of the room, and the soft glow of the white lights on the Christmas tree "that's going to be classy for once, damnit." This old house is quiet, but not lonely. Dark, but not cold. Upstairs, my brother and sisters have settled for their slumber, and I am up, thinking about how blessed I am to have had my life flavored by them. I can hear my parents chatting, the two best friends, as they always have. Genuine tears come to my eyes, as I drop to my knees and thank the Lord for the five greatest gifts a fella's ever been given.

They say Christmas is a time of miracles. Amen, Jimmy Stewart. Amen.

Drop it like it's Hot

Dancing in public is a different animal from the creature that is dancing at home, in private, putting on a show for nothing more than the potted plants. I love music, and as my roommate can probably attest, I will occasionally shake my bon-bon to a particularly rockin' piece of music. However, I usually will respect a dancefloor enough to avoid it as though it were a pool of lava.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not ashamed of myself or of my body... ask anyone, I'm plenty proud of it. I guess my reluctance to dance at social gatherings has more to do with respect. I'm not a good dancer. When I dance, its best described as looking like a combination of the floor being really hot with a lot of gnats flying around my head while I'm trying to contemplate a really hard calculus problem. (There is no spoon.) Sigh. So, for the good of those who might risk being hit by an errant, spastic hand, I usually refrain.

However, not tonight.

For some reason or other, tonight I throw caution to the wind. And this time, when someone says "hey Neil, come dance!" I don't fight the urge. My hand doesn't come up in protest. I just go with it. Yes, yes ladies and gents, I proceed to shake what my mamma gave me. I quake my "ga-dunk-a-dunk" and proceed to drop it as though it were exceedingly warm. Its how I roll, baby, holla at ya boy.

As I danced, as I realized how much fun it is to move with pure, unadulterated joy, I actually began to wonder how this was such an amazing metaphor for life. I know the whole "Dance" analogy has been totally played out, but perhaps you'll forgive me a reprisal of this oldie. I promise not to remix it and sample it and Britney spears it. I'll do it acoustic, like a surprise Simon and Garfunkel cover by a rock band. Everyone loves Simon and Garfunkel.

Y'know, not everyone dances so well. And some of us, well, we were just blessed with the happy feet. Well, the way I see it, you can do two things. You can sit and watch or you can get in the mix. You can throw your hat in the ring and play your hand. It doesn't matter how good or bad you are, because you see, the truest beauty of this dance is that we do it together. It doesn't matter how spastic you are or how graceful your vogue is. The joy is in just that itself, finding joy. And I believe true, pure joy can never be a bad thing.

The Lord wants us to dance, people. Sure, we're going to step on toes, (see picture below) but then again people are going to step on ours. And as I always say when someone steps on my feet, "its okay, I walk on them too."

So lets dance, people. Drop it like its hot.

Neil... that's my foot! 

The younger Golemo boy...

I miss my brother. That's his picture below. He's currently going to college on the Government Buck at the presigious West Point. Oh my, the things he must be learning...

okay, who needs a hole in something? 

Andrew and Dana are engaged!! Congrats and Huzzah! (Shh she doesn't know its a Zirconia.) 

On Balls of Gas...

So the stars are out tonight... kinda.

I'm amazed at how, even in our 3D, hyperactive, image driven, smell-o-vision, now available in high definition culture, the stars are able to not only catch our attention, but grab it. Hold it. When I look at the stars, I can't help but think. It doesn't matter what I think about, I just think. And I imagine that's the way it's always been.

I'll spare you the references to ancient history, the Greeks, the Romans, etc, etc, etc. But everyone has looked at the stars and thought. Its this force that manages to touch that ticklish part of our hearts. That part where dreams and crazy thoughts hide, abide and grow strong. Its like we know that if its possible for these lights to just hang there, free of glue and nails, then maybe anything really is possible. The unconditional Love of Christ. Half off everything at Best Buy. My finding True Love. A Chicago Cubs World Series Game 7 Win.

Maybe its something else. Maybe its that I look at all of those stars and as I start to count them I realize there's more than I ever begin to numerate. There's something scary about the realization that infinitely, the closer I look, the more there are.

Its like the time when my brother and I had a water balloon fight in our front yard. (it was great so anti-climactic at the beginning because we only had one faucet that could fill the balloons, so we'd have to take turns using it... looking at each other... giggling... okay me giggling, while my brother would frown in frustration and wonder what I was so excited about... "We get wet all the time Neil") Immediately after discovering what we had done, my Mom gave us a stern speech on "loving Mother earth" when she realized we hadn't picked up every piece of shattered water balloon. As we started to search the yard, we would notice the big pieces with the knot at the end easily. But when we bent down to grab those pieces, we'd notice smaller pieces, then slivers off of those pieces, then we'd notice other things like tootsie roll wrappers, the parts of the icee-slid-up popsicles that you bite off and spit out, tons of little things. Before of you knew it, you'd have a handful of stuff and only a small part of the yard had been searched. A genuine feeling of fear and panic would arise and make me promise never to throw another water balloon. At least not until we could go to Ryan Muegge's house. His mom'd let us do anything.

Sigh... exhausting analogy.

But back to my point. When I look at a sky full of stars, I the idea of complete insignificance coming from comparison [of me and it] collides with knowing that there's a God out there who, in fact, made this all for me. Yeah sure, he made it for everyone else too, but c'mon, I love the notion that he made it so that he and I could share the notion I'm having right now. He wants me and him to share inside jokes.

When I'm laying on the crest of a hill on a blanket staring up at the stars, my peripheral view doesn't allow me to see the horizon so all I can see is Sky. Navy-blue-black sky with dots here and there. If the air is right, its like I'm floating. Its one of the rare times I like to be alone.

Its a strange thing to gaze upon something and know its the closest you'll ever come to viewing infinity. Sometimes its just too much for the mind to process and I am truly full of awe.

If you have a spare night, do what I did tonight and drive up I-35 for 20 minutes to exit 353 (TX 2114 East), and drive for another 5 (if you go 1.7 miles, there'll be a road on your left called "Mechell"), go for another mile and you'll be on the top of a hill. Get out and sit on the hood of the chariot that got you there. Enjoy.

There's minutes wasted, but a piece of mind to be gained.

Lost the Found

Today I did it. I removed every piece of Erin from my room. Most of the stuff, the pictures, the candy, the birthday present package of Hershey's Kisses wrapped in a blush bow, these things were removed respectfully, one at a time, within a couple days of our last talk.

However, today, I removed that last worldly reminder of her former presence in my life. The razor she left in my shower. I could write a bajillion different ways that razor could be a metaphor for the ending of our relationship. But, honestly, none of them would fit.

I've gone on with my life. I haven't shed a tear. I imagine most people I know have any idea we're not talking anymore. I'm happy. My life is, undeniably, blessed.

For the last couple of weeks, I've enjoyed all life has to offer. I've commiserated with those near to me, and I've been home to spend time with those most dear to me. The world has reminded me how good a place it is, and that it loves me.

But now that I've put a little distance between the cup and the lip, Erin and me, I have some time to think and maybe lament a bit over my actions or lack thereof... whatever. I'll spare you the results of my self-examination.

But you know, we say things sometimes when we're in relationships. You can call it "pillow talk, baby" if you'd like, but that comes with a sexual connotation most that my words, as well as those of many of my friends, don't deserve. They're rubber cement words. Sometimes we say things hoping that they'll be true; as if the act of releasing them into the air will help them to substantiate and solidify.

But I really don't think such was the case with Erin. I really thought I was in love with her. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. How would I know anyway? Have I ever been in love? Isn't it kind of cocky for people to say they "know" they've been in love? How can you really know until you, well... know?

I don't know. But one thing I do know is that I don't think you ever stop feeling for people. Even if you only love them a little -if there is such a thing- I never lose some of those feelings for people. I will always feel I have a vested interest in Haley Dowdall's life, even though she clearly chose Justin Hamilton over me behind the see-saw in 1st grade. I had feelings for her then, and while the Flintstones' vitamins haven't helped my emotions for her to grow quite as much as they helped my ol' temple, they haven't really diminished them, either.

But I really thought things were different with Erin. I mean, I know they were different from anything I'd ever felt before. I was calm in my excitement at talking to her. She was a woman who could have been my best friend and more. She'd the rare mix of personality that could handle me and beauty that could enthrall me. I thought I'd found her. Sigh, but there's many a slip twixt the cup and the lip, they say. And I guess I've not found my find afterall.

I've been rejected. Plain and simple. But then again, I know who I am. I'm a catch, dammit. And I know this. I'm a good person, future professional, hopeless romantic with a lot of hope and the kind of guy who wants to coach his kid's little league baseball team... someday. I know I'm a great guy and have tons to offer. But that means these women must be crazy, right? So why do I end up with all the psychos? But then I looked at it empirically. The color drained out of my face as I held my cup of hot tea when I realized that the only consistency in all of my relationships was ME.

So, does that make me the crazy one?

I was talking to Mary the other day and I realized that everyone's a little insane. Sometimes when two people get together, their craziness's add and can become explosive. Maybe what we need is to find someone who cancels out your crazy. An electron for your proton. But even then, orbits can get messed up by factors like maturity, timing, law school and parents.

Love -no, relationships- are like a bar of soap. They're slippery as hell. And if you ever want to get any use out of them, you've got to hold them gently, enjoy them, and understand that, sometimes, they're just bound to escape your grasp. So it goes, as Vonnegut would say.

I'm frustrated with Love right now. But me saying "I'm frustrated with love" is kind of like Paul Bunyan looking out at a forrest and saying the trees tire him out. It's what we do.

I'm going to find my someone. I might have found her already. But until then, I'll sit and dream and praise the Lord for that person worth my prayers.

Last "Quiet, Lovely" concert. Tonight. Scruffy Murphy's. 10 O'clizzy.

A treatise on "quaint"

quaint ( P ) Pronunciation Key (kwnt)
adj. Quaint·er, quaint·est
1. Charmingly odd, especially in an old-fashioned way.
2. Unfamiliar or unusual in character; strange: quaint dialect words. See Synonyms at strange.
3. Cleverly made; artful.

I miss my parents. I miss the smell of my old house. As much as this 23 year-old knows he should repress, he cannot help but feel a genuine sense of... well... genuine-ness when he walks crosses the threshold of the place in which he grew up.

I remember how endless the banister used to seem when I was sliding down it in my sleeper pajamas. Old family paintings that used to be haunted are now just dusty. But, I still swear that arms are about reach out from the space under the basement stairs (where the bodies are stashed) and grab an unsuspecting quarter-Sicilian, quarter-Pollock, eighth Irish, but all-stud ankle one of these days.

There's something about the smell of the French bread my mom bakes and the grunts that spew forth from my father's throat at the mess she makes; though we all know the only reason he's chosen that exact moment to clean the "command center" is because he wants to be in the same room as my mother. There's something about those moments! There's something about home that makes it easier to get through the hard times. Its like home, my mom, my pappa-cho, dog (that can tell my mother's footsteps and knows to get down off the couch before he gets yelled at), two beautiful sisters and not-so-little brother are this base-line for my life, a rock-bottom foundation, the north star from which I know I'll be able to find my way.

Home is my chain-smoking Aunt Teresa (we call her "Aunt Tar") who lives with the white-haired matriarch of the family, my super-Catholic Grandma Veith. Home is my always teary-eyed, Aunt Loretta, and my seven cousins. Zach with his always uncouth -yet extremely hilarious- stories, usually involving some combination his bodily functions, a girl, Brett Farve and beer. Ah, Shorty! There's my always-disapproving (usually with reason) cousin Erica, the overprotective Monica, her husband Steve and their progeny, Aedan, who try to fight the urge to laugh with an aire of disdain.

Home is driving by my old High School and wondering what all the fuss was about.

But now, Home is also seeing the gilded dome of Pat Neff Hall over the shoulder of Judge Baylor's statue. It's seeing young couples necking on the path through the North Village. Home is the courtyard of Brooks Hall, where I've lost myself and found myself. Home is the "tink" of frosty brews with friends like Eric and Myles. Holla at ya boy!

These things, they're familiar in their quirkiness. They're sort of old-fashioned but great. They are beautiful, and artfully done. They are, in a word, "quaint."

So you see, Stace, -may I call you "Stace"?- your words, your sweet innocence, your delicious sublimity, your utter honesty, they're masterfully done to me. Stace, when I imagine you, holding plastic bags, the hard-fought day-before-Thanksgiving contents straining against the handles and digging into your hands, standing in front of a red-haired, feisty mother doubled over in laughter at the sight of your scrunched eyebrows, wrinkled nose and the corners of your mouth turned down with frustration, its like home-made French bread being wafted in front of my nose. I don't think "quaint" is such a bad thing, hopefully you no longer do either.

Thanks, Stacey, it was great talking to me, wasn't it? Hopefully, you'll deign to do so again soon.

[My Ghosts] Re-published for Myles

The most painful memories of my life are evoked by the mere mentioning of the words “Cardinal Glennon Children’s Hospital”, and now I’m entering that very place. It’s been almost five years since I’ve been here. Its prodigal son returns.

My ears begin to tingle with familiarity as I step onto the worn out pressure sensor mats in front of the automatic doors. I can see the inner hallway through the fencing reinforced plexiglass of the inner doors. I steel myself.

As I step through the entrance into the hallway, I notice the sea-foam colored tile that lines the hall and the same pastel pattern that borders along its edge. Only now, it’s seems lower. Have I grown that much?

I make my way, almost on auto-pilot, to the elevator. I notice, with a grin, how the arrow that points up still blinks with irregularity.

“Oops, my bad.”: says the orderly as he bumps me with his cart full of urine samples and the like.

“De nada.”: I mumble as I follow him onto the lift.

My finger finds the button for the ninth floor even though the number is scratched and appears now to be just a sloppy “3". I push it until it’s illuminated a pale orange.

It’s just the orderly and me now. We both smile and nod as we attempt a witty reparte’ while we wait. At the “ding” of the bell, I step off as I wish the orderly a good day.

The ninth floor. The Oncology ward. As I walk towards the door, my legs begin to feel like I’ve just run a marathon. They’re tired and heavy. I reach out a clumsy hand towards the cold metal of the doorhandle. My fingertips are surprised to feel a warmth in that seemingly heartless piece of steel.

As I open the door my nostrils flare as they are assaulted with the smell of the antiseptic cleaner used to clean up vomit. I, as Pavlov’s dogs salivated at the sound of a bell, have associated that unctuous odor with vomit and begin to get that bitter taste in the back of my mouth that touches the sides of your tongue right before you puke. My eyes dart around the hallway searching for a trash can. Not finding one, I run back through the doors and out of the Cancer ward, my heart racing.

I sit down in the corner of that hallway and put my head between my knees in a futile attempt to make that feeling of fear and anxiety subside. Throwing up would be a release.

Standing up and ignoring my own lightheadedness I step to the door, draw it open and attack the entrance. I step through it with all the will I can muster. As I look down the hallway, I observe a frayed knot of action. Nurses are walking stiff-legged with urgency from room to room, alcove to alcove.

As I start to move down the hall, I feel more like the hall is moving around me. I look down at my feet moving step ahead of step. It’s like I’m watching someone else’s feet. My breath tightens as I look through the crack of an opening door.

I see a child sitting on a table. I feel my stomach tense as his blue eyes lock with mine. His head is bald and lumpy resembling (though I hate to say it) a potato. Through the crack of the door, I can see the patches of gossamer hair that cling to his head in clumps. I see how on his arm is a board; and in his wrist is a needle, an I.V., a heparin lock.

In his eyes I can see a strength beyond his stature. As they hold me in their grip, I see a determination, a will greater than I can understand, a fire. He lays his head in his mother’s lap, and I can see him no more through that crack in the door.

As the hallway begins again to pass by me, I run, quite literally, into a little girl. She too, has the gaunt figures that remind me of sights I’ve seen only in National Geographic Magazine of starving Ethiopian children. But there is no emptiness in her eyes. I hear her squeal with delight as she races along the pathway and skids around the corner with her I.V. pole in tow. Her pink bathrobe with Barbie monogrammed on the back fluttering along after her.

I run after her. I want to see where she’s going. But when I turn the corner, my smile fades. I remember this place. It’s a cul de sac of a hallway; a giant “u”. It’s the infusion area. This is the place I remember all too well. This is the place I’ve been trying to forget. This hallway is more of a big room with little alcoves along the outside wall that surround a nurse’s post. Each little “room” has a bed, a tv, a chair for the parents, a pole for the medication, and a curtain for privacy.

As I walk through the hallway, I hear screams of pain. I can hear the children cry to their mothers “mommy, make it stop! I’ll be good, I promise!” My nose begins to drip and my eyes start to well and itch. In with the pleadings of the child I hear the alto sobbings of the mother: “I’m so sorry baby, I’m so sorry.” I go to this room, and I peek around the curtain to see the child laying down with another board held on by clear adhesive medical tape to his arm. It’s the boy I saw earlier. Wincing in pain, he once again lays his head in his mother’s lap. She strokes his lumpy head and begins to sing in a deep, melancholy voice:

"Summertime, and the livin’ is easy...” Instantly there is silence; silence, save for that sweet sound seeming to saturate every pore of my soul.

I look at the little boy. The pain has not left his face though his tears have stopped. I see all motion leave his face. My tears flowing, I close the curtain.

Republished for the lovely and "quaint", Miss Stacey {Does being nothing special make you special?}

Origionally published: August 16th, 2004

I wasn't going to go. I didn't really want to go. I felt like being there would somehow be betraying my friends and family. Like going to the movie you told a friend earlier in the day you didn't want to see.

So as I was clapping and cheering for numerous of my friends as they received their diplomas from President Sloan last Saturday, I did my best to yell in such way that wouldn't get me noticed. Its kind of contrary to the whole purpose of yelling, I guess. But we tend to suspend logic in situations where it isn't welcome.

I was able to avoid any real pangs of guilt until I perused the Commencement Program and discovered my name.

Elizabeth Anne Goble
Neil Edward Golemo
Miguel Gonzalez

I recently had a conversation with a dear friend. She felt the need to inform me of how "hard it is to be your friend".

Apparently, and I'm doing my best to recreate words she used, it is hard to be friends with me because I'm perfect. I'm smart. I'm funny. I'm well-read. I have high moral standards. I'm devoted to my family. I love children. I laugh at everything. I'm in a good place with the Lord but not complacent. I can sing. I'm an excellent cook. I'm courteous and romantic. I have a "way of making myself the center of attention". I'm "one of the most confident people" she's ever met.

And supposedly all of these things make me perfect, thus intimidating.

What in the hell?

Immediately I questioned how well this girl could have ever felt she knew me if she could honestly think of me as "perfect". I don't see how she could have a conversation with me and not take note of my arrogance. I'm not perfect. I'm nothing if not completely and utterly flawed.

I found myself growing angry with her. I'm nothing. If I have any worth its because of blessings given to me by the Lord. I know this. Obviously, she has not the audience with my thoughts that I enjoy. But she should know me better than that. I don't really trust many people, but I had trusted her. I'd been honest with her. How dare she think me superior to her. Its flagrant misuse of the word "perfect" that degrades the word and superlatives as a whole. Damn, I was mad.

I'm nothing special. I'm just a pudgy, socially deft yet relationally inept connoisseur of Chicago area baseball clubs trying to find my christian way through the media-driven wasteland that is our world.

Wait.

Do I really believe that? Do I really think that I'm not special? Don't we all truly believe that we, alone, are the center of the universe? We've all entertained the thought from time to time that maybe this life is, quite literally, a dream from which we could wake up at any moment. Who hasn't watched The Truman Show and not wondered "what if our reality was merely someone else's media? How real is our world?

Or in the Christian identity sense, don't we all have a personal relationship with Christ? Is it not the idea of a Lord that knows every hair on my head that comforts us like a warm quilt? The idea that I am in possession of some trait(s) that sets me apart from every other soul existing, existed, or yet to exist makes me feel, well, special.

So as I was defending my own mediocrity, I started to wonder why I was fighting it. Yeah, she was wrong. But why was I fighting it? Was I simply trying to avoid the hubris of which I'm very susceptible?

I don't want to be intimidating. I don't want to be ashamed of who I am. And I'm not. I know I have (many) faults, but I'm not ashamed of them either. The other day, I was watching "the great biker build-off" on TLC. I'm addicted to these Chopper series. But one of the master builders, as he was installing the headlight into his newest masterpiece, his hand slipped and the chrome-plated casing falls to the floor with a fitting crash. He simply picked it up and after glancing to see any new defects the plunge might have caused he simply put it into place with a "hmmph" and the comment "now it has character".

That's me. Yeah, I may have a few scratches but that doesn't mean the Lord won't use me as part of his masterpiece. My dents have blessed me with "character".

As I watched Elizabeth Anne Goble walk across the stage and heard the name of Miguel Gonzalez come next, I watched carefully the people surrounding me to see if they had notice the egregious error made my the announcer. I was searching for the small girl grabbing the arm of her mother and asking pleadingly "mommy, why didn't they read Neil's name?"

I was expecting to see men rising and storming out in protest. Women should start crying. I expected friends and strangers I had benevolently touched in some unknown way rise to my defense.

But much to my awe and gaping mouth, no one said a thing. No wailing women wearing black. No men with a beef. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

As I sat back in my stadium seat, the plastic fighting the relaxing advance of my thoracic vertebrae, I smiled. What does a dumb ol' girl know about me anyway?

It's a [insert race] thing; you wouldn't understand.

One of my favorite things about the great land of Texas is Bush's Chicken. When I'm away, in the world of good dental hygiene, green leafy vegetables and Deer Huntin' orange with camouflage interior design motif's up north, the pale tan of the chicken-fried chicken strips, gravy the consistency of warm Vaseline (not that I would know anything about that) and fried okra of Bush's Chicken are what calls to me. Top all that off with a half-gallon of pancreas-punching sweet tea and coma’s almost worth it. It's what I call tank food; the kind of food that just marches through your system; kicking the ass of anything that would step into its way.

So one day a week or so ago, two of my friends and I decided to assuage my angst at becoming part of the single's community by kicking my arties in the crotch with a 2 piece at Bush's. Dine in, please. Tim Chao, Dave Chen and I order our food and find a nice booth on the right side of the restaurant. Dave and Tim sit facing doors; I hit the other side with my back to the entrance. I only say this because I usually like to sit with facing the entrance, in case someone decides to run in with AK-47's and hold up Bush's for extra Bush's Chicken Seasoning... yes, I'm strange. Very strange.

Anyway, just as I was finishing my crinkle-cut fries, I notice two young black men snicker as they walk by. To be honest, it really was a "snicker". I'd never really thought I'd actually heard a "snicker" until I heard their particular snicker. Yes, it was definitely a snicker.

I didn't think anything of it -people usually laugh when they see me. A couple seconds later, I hear more laughing and then I think I catch the words "chop-sticks." Wait, this is a chicken joint. I eavesdrop -no I observe- a little closer and try to catch the rest of what these fellows are saying. I don't really have to listen closely as they start to get louder and louder.

"Hi YAW!" one yells as he rips through a napkin held up by his friend. "Oh, Daniel-San, your technique racks the soul of a warrior!"

At this, the devilish smile melts off my face as I realize these guys are making fun of my Asian friends. I turn around and look at them with the sternest, most withering scowl I can shape upon my face. They see me, laugh, duck and keep going. I hear them yell "Jackie Chan" and "Bruce Lee" in between purposely poor attempts at the Chinese language. The whole time, I'm getting more and angrier.

Finally, I see something come flying across the room and onto the ground. That's it. You can be openly racist, and you'll make me angry. But you litter? That's just too much! Whatever the reason, I stand up, calmly walk over to their booth, pull up a chair and sit upon it backwards while facing my two new friends.

With a grin, I look at the first one, the one on my right, and ask "Have you ever been the victim of racism?" I stare at him, my eyes locked onto his, and wait for a response that won't come. I turn and look at the guy on the left, "What about you? Have you ever had anyone call you a racist name? Have you ever been treated differently for no other reason than the color of your skin?"

This guy must have been the brave one because he started to respond, "well, um, ye-"

"-No." I interrupt. "No, I don't think you have. Because if you knew anything about what racism feels like, I cannot believe you would be treating my friends with such a lack of respect."

Stunned silence.

I wait one RCC-esque pause, and wish them both a nice day and walk back to my table to eat. To be honest, I'm not really sure what happened next. I know that my friends didn't really have much to say. It was kind of a crazy thing to do. I mean, who does that? That's the kind of thing I usually think of later, after the clouds of anger of have dispersed from my mind and the size of the other guys have shrunk into something more manageable by my imagination.

Race, racism, bigotry, these are my chocolate; things subjects that just ignite my passion; my push-button issues. I have no idea why. I’m no crusader, I do not pretend that these are problems I can solve for the world. But these are huge problems.

So often people will claim things like “racism is getting better; its not such a big problem anymore.” Well I think that any racism is a “big” problem.

I get frustrated sometimes. So it goes.

The kind of heavy gravity ignores

"Big things are happening" our hero thinks to himself as he waits in line. It is 11:45 pm on an island of a Monday night and here I find myself bouncing foot-to-foot as if I'm a 4 year-old doing the "Potty dance" in a queue for the highly-anticipated, nearly 2 years waited, video game of the year. The "Lord of the Rings" of the video game world. Halo 2.

Go earth.

In just 30-45 minutes, depending upon traffic and how fast I drive, I, "Master Chief", will be, once again, saving the universe and all mankind from "The Covenant" and "The Flood" while wielding an amazing assortment of weapons and never lacking in cute quips for those who would stop me.

But for now, I wait. Its a strange thing to spend 3 hours in close proximity with this especially avid form of video gamers. Its an oxymoronic phrase: "video gamers interacting." You should have seen the two fellas in front of me. The sociologist in me came out to play while watching these two Dagwoods. I swear they spoke, nearly exclusively, in grunts and gurgles. It took me about 5 minutes to realize that Lump #1's name wasn't actually "Exturmn8er702" but that he and his friend, "LyvYer2012" only refer to each other in their Xbox Live handles.

Sigh.

I could see the excitement in the glistening of their pasty-white hides and spotty mustaches 14 years in the making... "Come on puberty! You can do it!" But a surprising thing happened. Being near these guys began to get my heart pumping a little bit. They were pumped! And I have to admit, it was rubbing off on me. Yeah sure, their untucked, two sizes too big shirts show signs of their last two lunches and reek of B.O. Sure, they have the social skills of a Mongol with Tourett's and the attention span of a "huh? What were we talking about again?" But this was a big night for them. A night two years in the making, and I found their passion to be inspiring.

LyvYer told me, between heaves on his inhaler, how he'd been dreaming of this day for the last two years, "ever since I beat the Halo 1." The release of this game was a big thing for them. A heavy thing.

Sometime around hour 2 of 3, with all of my social currency spent, I began to reflect as I sometimes do.

Big things. Big, heavy things.

There's been a few of those for me this week. On Tuesday I found out that my cousin, Andee, practically a younger sister, who is in Iraq, would be -and currently is- involved in "Operation Phantom Fury." This was a little sobering. Yeah, I've sent her an email and a letter or two. I pray for her constantly. And I'll get a mass email from her occasionally as well hearing how life "over there" sucks. But until now, until I heard about casualties coming from her battalion or company, (or maybe both?) I'd been just imagining her at summer camp. A really dry summer camp... with guns... and where they curse a lot... a really dry, militant summer camp where they curse... like Boy Scout Camp in El Paso...

But now its real. People are dying and my worries are no longer held in check by anonymity. Andee is in danger. Real danger. And I fear for her. This kind of fear... its a sort of an Achilles-cutting debilitating phobia-forming fear. I'm helpless to help her.

On Wednesday, a very good friend of mine here at Baylor had a child. Around 1:51 PM, Brian Rowe's beautiful daughter, Emma Merie Grace was born into this world. Earlier in the day, Brian called me, let me know what was going on, and asked me if I would be his "communication guy." He would call me and I would farm out the information to "the Crew." In my "Goofy" voice, I answer with the kind of awe that seems to accompany all requests (no matter how mundane: "would you mind cleaning up the vomit left by the wedding party?) surrounding things like births, weddings, funerals, bar-mitzvahs, duels?, "um, garsh, I mean, shucks! Yeah Bry! Of course! I'm your man. Let me know what you need... shucks!"

The baby came. Calls went out. We all, Jordan, Rae, Dave, Crawford, Beth, Tim and myself, went to go see the newest edition to our group of fellas. It hit me when I looked through the glass and saw this little red-faced wriggling thing wrapped up like a candy bar in commercials, "she is new." Right now, this child has not a sin upon her soul. I understand why it is that parents always call their baby's "perfect" no matter how butt-ugly everyone else thinks they may be. (Oh, right, like YOU'VE never thought that.) But all light-heartedness aside, one cannot get avoid seeing the gravity of this situation. This is big. This is heavy.

I begin to fall prey to my own sense of solipsism and wonder about myself; how this all affects me. Brian, is a year younger than me. Yet, should an outsider with no knowledge of Brian other than his age see him with a stroller walking Emma, I imagine no real flags would be raised. Its natural for a 22 year-old to procreate. Perhaps he is a little young, but not too much. What does this say about me? I'm 23. I've graduated from a good University with a very marketable degree. I'm doing well in Graduate school in a cohort where nearly half of my peers are married, engaged, or well on their ways to being so. And here I am, wallowing in academia, afraid to leave my niche as the spunky student and wondering if I'm ever going to get this "Bill-paying" thing.

When I think of the long-term, I'm simply finding it hard to see anything beyond receiving my Masters in Education a year from May. Its as though there is a curtain pulled across my future. I know its there, (hope its there), but I cannot see it. And for now, now is enough to keep me occupied. My line is weighted well enough this far from the bobber.

There's the girl. Erin. She makes my heart sing but things are tough. For the last couple of years I've been a wreck when it comes to the opposite sex. Either I'm all in it or not at all. I find a woman of worth, and I have excellent taste in women, and I place her upon a pedestal; hold her as my ideal. "The girl."

But with Erin, things are different. She's not so much a "girl." She's, well, she's just "Erin." She isn't a sex to me. She's just this person I think I might love. It was a slippery kind of back-door realization of this, too. She started out as a crush. But somewhere over the years I gave up and decided to just get to know the girl, her crazy little peccadillos. But before she would show me hers, I had to show her some of mine. I dropped the playboy routine for the first time with her. We were never going to date, why not? For some reason, it has always been so easy to lay myself out there for Erin. Guys, she's amazing. I've never known someone more unafraid of a hard-day's work. She's not a wimp. But, she's girly too. Sometimes she lets me act like I make things better for her.

She's loyal. She's loyal to her friends, her parents, her family, her school.

She has most pronounced northern accent I've ever heard from someone south of Milwakee. Everytime "bags" becomes "bigs" or "gosh" becomes "gash," "Neil" becomes "mush." I'm praying like hell that she comes down here to Baylor for her master's degree. I've never lived in the same city as the girl. It would be nice. And I've seen what Baylor is when she's around. The team wins football games, Thai food tastes better and my friends are funnier. Its something I could get used to.

But when I think about it, I'm not sure I'm ready for the weight of serious monogamy. Is there anyone else? Absolutely not. If I had to choose one person on this earth, any person, with which to get married and have tons and tons and tons of marital sex, it would take me no time to give you my answer, Erin Many. (totally wanted to say something like Gandhi, Jessica Rabbit or Bosephus the Rodeo clown)

But, I know that right now, I'm not the man that Erin deserves or will need. But will I ever be? And does it matter? Its not fair to imagine Brian "ready" to have a child, a mouth to fill, diapers to change, a butt to have inoculated and clothed, a soul to guide for, at least, the next 18 years. I cannot see how my melodramatic cousin Andee, the one who would wear yellow or pink everyday for everything if she could, who loves Winnie the Pooh more than most people have any business loving any fictional character, was ready to go to war; to pledge her life to protect those of others. I don't care what you say, but how can someone be ready for something like that? Hell, even my buddies LyvYwer and Turmn8er might have balked at whether or not they were ready for something like Halo 2. But damnit, they dealt. Just as Brian will deal and Andee will deal.

Brian will raise his child. Andee will come home. Lyv and n8er will beat the game. They will carry their burdens and maybe their burdens will carry them. Life is funny like that. Gravity has no power over this kind of heavy. But we do.

Brian, Emma, Andee and Erin, I will see you all soon, ready or not.

Announcement/Cop-out Blog

Sorry its been a while since i've posted. I'm afraid its actually going to be a bit longer.

• Big news: I've decided that I'm going to pursue my Phd. in Education as soon as I can. Most likely it will be after I finish my Master's in Education in May '06.
• Baylor beat aTm 35-34. Proud of my boys.
• I heard Bush won. I know I should feel something about that...
• I've been writing my little pucker off... just for academic purposes...
• My buddy Brian is having his kid on Thursday! Prayers!
• Cousin Andee needs prayers.
• Myles, you need to call a brother.
• Mary, frozen fruit, hot tea and good conversation awaits us.
• That Erin is one amazing girl.
• I've decided to go by Neil E. Golemo. I was named after both my grandfathers. I'm sick of barely recognizing my link to Grandpa Golemo. (I wonder if this is how Sting felt when he started asking all of his friends to call him "Sting?")

Hollar at your boy and listen to "Snow Patrol."

Neiliness to you all,

A letter of recommendation

This is a letter I've been working on for a very deserving man. I was kinda chosen out of my cohort for this honor. I had no idea until about 24 hours ago how big a deal this is. The last fella who got this award was given a $20,000 grant and the option to present a paper upon the topic of his choice at a banquet in held in his honor. The only obstacle between Dr. Cloud and this award is my abilty to articulate how wonderful a man he is.

For your consideration:

Neil Golemo
Master’s Candidate
School of Education

October 27, 2004


Nomination Committee, One great expectation of being in Grad School that has completely come true is that of exceptional professor performance. It’s only my first semester, yet I've already been exposed to three excellent teachers. Dr. Martha Lou Scott is fascinating, yet wholly disarming with her East-Texas accent. Also, she bleeds Green and Gold, just as I do. Dr. Shushok has proven to be one of the best facilitators of classroom discussion I have ever encountered. Then there's Dr. Robert C. Cloud. And he says his middle initial, as if he were a civil war general of old. Robert C. Cloud—or RCC for short—is a true commander of dramatic teaching form, the master of the 3-second pause. He literally reminds our class how smart and good looking we are at every meeting. He can take us from laughs to tears in the "flick of a cricket's leg."

I don't really remember either of my grandfathers. One died years before I was even conceived and the other, my namesake, died when I was very young. I remember only tiny bits. I remember looking at a cartoon in a Sesame Street book, seeing a portrait on the wall of Bert's father, and thinking I was reminded of my Grandpa Veith (He kind of had a pointy head). I remember, after he died of a heart-attack, giving my Grandma "hug-attacks." I remember pipe smoke, but I don't really remember him in the flesh.

And now the Lord has brought Dr. Cloud into my life. RCC challenges our class in a way I doubt any of us ever thought a professor could. He engages each and every person with every word of oration. When he speaks, his watery-blue eyes have a way of finding every other set in the room, demanding their attention –no, their fixation. And every time he says "now listen to RCC on this one..." we are all rapt in concentration, secured upon his every word. His are words that do not seem to come from the man, but from every man, woman or piece of prose that has ever touched him and taught him a lesson. When RCC holds forth, one does not hear only the words of a silver-haired gentleman, but the sagacity of Plato, the simplicity of a kindergartner and the wisdom from the mouth of his 92-years-young “Mee-Maw” when she admonished him that “there’s always the morning after the night before.”

Dr. Cloud is emotional. He shares his life with us so that we may know exactly how the skills and information we are learning now will make us better equipped to serve the Academy in our futures. With RCC, every reading has weight and importance. He has shown us that passion can have a place in our careers, passion tempered by knowledge. Dr. Cloud bares his soul for the good of ours.

Lately, he has been reading to us at the end of every class and I cannot help but feel as I might have felt—could I better remember—when my Grandfather read to me. Last night, when I felt his raspy voice wash over me, I was taken to a different place: the book-bag sitting in my lap became my old teddy bear and my jeans and Doc's were suddenly "footsie pajamas." For only a moment, I was little again and my life lay completely ahead of me. With whimsy in his heart, he spoke to us of the places we would go and the things we would do. And then, solemnly he informed my class of how he wished he could go with us, yet he could not; his time was passing. With a tear in his eye, he asked us to take him along in spirit. In that moment, RCC made me feel as though I had all the potential in the world and that my life is a book yet to be written. One can only imagine my shock when I realized it was true.

This only begins to describe how each one in my class feels about Dr. Robert C. Cloud. He continues to change the face of scholarship, enhance the level of academia among the students, and create leaders in education for tomorrow. I, along with my classmates, would like to nominate Dr. Cloud for the second annual Cornelia Marschall Smith Professor of the Year Award.

Sincerely,


Neil Golemo

Lines

Tonight I was watching my favorite TV show on DVD. Yes, once again, I couldn't sleep.

There's this scene where the main character is drawing the image of the woman he once loved. For most of the scene, you cannot see the picture though you see his scowl and he, pencil in hand, working furiously to render her visage to parchment.

Finally, we see the face of his beloved. It's an incredibly simple drawing; just a few lines -but beautiful and sublime. My heart sunk and I'll admit I got a little teary. Yeah, I know it's been one of those "weeks" but even still, the pure poignancy of the drawing touched me.

Upon a second or two of reflection, I was touched even further to realize that I was so moved by a collection of lines. Black upon white. Nothing more. But then again, yes. Yes it was.

In this world we've been lead to believe that we are more than just black lines against white paper. Life is more than black and white, the song says. There's grey in there too.

We have "yes" and we have "no." "Maybe."

This picture. It captured her completely. It required no grays to encompass all that made his muse beautiful. This drawing made my heart sing and cry and mope around in its socks and stained hoody drinking milk from the carton for three days in a row, all at the same time.

I heard a quote by Oscar Wilde that once said: "morality, like art, means drawing a line someplace."

Whatever the case may be, for good or for not-so-good, it is the lines we draw that define us. Grays and shadows will fall where they may, but my friends, it is the lines we draw that make the man... or woman... okay person.

I could launch into a whole diatribe (or prolong the current one) by talking about morality and all that stuff. But as ol' RCC would say, "folks, maybe that's a rabbit I'll chase another time." Perhaps our time is better served wondering why it is that we need lines.

We need lines to show us where to park and where to walk. We need lines to get tickets to a show... or Pigskin (Nice legs, Mary!). When you think about it, you've lines to thank for reading this particular bit of prose. Lines bent into the shape of letters.

We desire lines. Sometimes just because we want something to toe. Other times, we love the connection that only a line can illustrate. I remember before a recent trip to Illinois, I was "MapQuesting" routes to drive home from Hamilton. (Wow. Weird statement. Waco is home? Waco is home.) On a whim, I decided to plot the course from my apartment to Erin's. One cannot describe the particular flavor of comfort I got from seeing a red line cross states and rivers to connect the two places in which we both sleep, eat and breath.

Sigh.

What a wonderful thing a line is. Comfort-bringer and curse. Much like my fallen form, forever shall it bring me wonder of a greater thing than myself.

The "bit role"...

Put on some pants... check.

Shirt... check.

Tuck in... whoop!... check.

Got my keys, got my phone, fly's up. Let's go. Phone rings -it's Myles.

"Hey Neil, on your way over?"

I start to walk to the door. "Just stepping out of the Apartment... en route, brother".

"Well, um, okay we're going to take a field trip... I can't explain now and I have no idea what's going to happen."

I lean forward, interested. "Um, okayyy, I'll be there in a minute".

What in the heck? I'm used to Myles saying things over my head, but this was crazy. So, I hurry up and get to Myles to discover a skinny looking African American woman looking quite perturbed and sitting on Myles's stoop. Well, actually, I didn't know for a fact that it was a woman. To be honest, I thought it was the infamous "Glenn". (A homeless man Myles and his roommates occasionally support with a meal or the occasional buck or two) Turns out, I wasn't that far off...

I park across the street; say a quick prayer asking for nothing in particular. I turn the ignition key counter-clockwise, sigh, and pull it out. I glance up at the rear-view, fix my hat. I close my eyes and open the door. After crossing the street, I get to within a few feet of where the young woman was sitting and subsequently realized that not only was she a "she" but also that she wasn't exactly all that young.

As the realization begins to curve my eyebrow Myles steps up with a "Neil. How are ya?". I shake his hand and introduces the lady to me as "Deisha" (sp?). In the next few minutes, I found out that Deisha needed a ride to her place a few miles away, a room in the "Viking Inn". Since I had plenty of gas, I volunteered.

Deisha looks at me and asks: "Do you think that maybe we could get me some chicken or something to eat?".

My heart drops and I say: "of course, Deena".

Yeah, I definitely blew that one.

I'm not really sure how to describe the thoughts going through my head as we held forth unto the highway out towards a rougher part of town. Deisha's telling us about Glenn ditching her far from the apartment and how he's smokin' again, etc. At this, I wonder if the Bob Marley in my CD player was such a good choice... or was it? Then Deisha gets quiet and Myles says "so how was your weekend?". I was surprised at my own ability to Bullshit calmness on the surface while my heart is fluttering wildly underneath.

As I pull into the "Viking Inn", my mind is in a state of horror confused with intense interest. My eyes wide, I sucked in every detail. Three cars in the parking lot. A lady in tight and dirty jean shorts stands in the doorway of the of motel office sucking a cigarette all the way down to her orange fingernails. 5 episodes of MakeOver have taught me that Orange is an "unfortunate" color for her complexion.

"Its the apartment on the other side of the suburban" Deisha croaks.

As I stop and before the struts can even dampen the inertia of the car making it bounce back --you know what I'm talking about-- Deisha leaps out the back-right door of my Stratus. The second the door even shuts Myles turns his shoulders towards me, leans slightly forward and without taking his eyes off of a Deisha angrily pounding upon the motel door, says -as if he had to- "Neil, I have absolutely no idea where this is going. If I were you I'd be ready to throw it in reverse and get the hell out of here".

After a few seconds of pounding on a door that won't be answered and a few attempts to peer through a curtained window, a livid Deisha storms off through the parking lot back towards the office. She motions for us to follow her. Forgetting I had already slipped the car into reverse in preparation for a hasty get-away, I accidentally put it into neutral. As I was looking down to fix the problem, I see Myles's eyes focus upon something over my shoulder. I twist to look out the driver's-side window to see a skinny African-American man in a torn, red t-shirt stumble out of another motel room with two beers in one hand --one open, one not-- with a younger-looking woman tottering behind him. He walks right up to the door upon which Deisha had so eagerly been knocking and slips in a key. He looks at us, Myles and I look at each other, then he seems to recognize Myles.

He walks up to the door: "What's up?".

Myles: "Deisha's looking for you. She just went to the motel office to get your key".

Yeah, this is Glenn.

So Glenn walks straight to the motel office. We follow, -in the car of course. I'll spare you the rest of this story but I will let you know it involves a husband and a wife yelling and screaming at each other, a motel key being thrown into the middle of a parking lot, and Myles and my not saying a word.

As we drove Deisha back to Myles's place, I guess because that's where we found her, I think I began to kind of cry inside. Had I just witnessed the ending of a marriage? A breaking point in the conjunction of two lives?

What kind of shit was this? How could this be? I hadn't said anything. I hadn't done a thing to help them. Hell, in a way I had facilitated this whole event via the four wheels of my Dodge. But then one tells himself there really was nothing he really could do. That the relationship had been deteriorating for months or even years before this day and I had only caught but a frame or two of a story reels into the telling.

Sigh.

As I gave Deisha all the money I had, I suddenly wish I had more to give. I hated myself for having a good car. I despised myself for purchasing a wicked-cool CD player to put in it. I saw the Baylor ring on my finger, the Nike Watch on my wrist and the phone in my pocket and I all of a sudden felt heavy, as if I was wearing three parkas on a spring day.

I thought about the parents who've placed me in a position to succeed. I have a wonderful life with friends who support me and an amazing woman who waits to kiss me. I think about the life I've had and all the days I've yet to enjoy, and I wonder what I could have done to deserve it. It's a beautiful thing when the heaviest weight upon your heart is watching October baseball without seeing Cubbie Blue.

In stories of many lives, I play a major character. I may be the quirky roommate, or the fatherly mentor. I could be the naive apprentice or the hunky "Mr. Right". (thanks, Erin) But it appears that in this case, I am but a random dude playing the "bit" part. In the credits of Deisha's life, I guess I'd be "Guy #2 in Car". I guess I'm okay with that. I only hope I got my line right.

A many splendored thing

I was so nervous I couldn't even walk in. Also, I didn't want to have one of those weird moments where you're walking from the plane and you see the person who's come to pick you up from like 12 miles away and then you have the weird sustained eye-contact thing...

Okay, I was nervous. Could you blame me? I hadn't seen the girl in forever and yet here she comes -after driving to St. Louis to get on a plane and taking that plane to Houston and sitting through a 2-hour lay-over waiting for her flight to Waco... I was a little... "Willie McWiggins."

But then, finally, her plane shows up and taxi's in. I walk into the small airport and wait in front of the gate. My eyes dart around for possible places to position myself. Should I lean up against this post? -Too James Dean. I could hide behind this corner and jump out at her... stupid. Should I sit on this airport bench, lean back and act nonchalant (as if girls on which I've had a crush for 5+ years fly 900 miles to see me on my birthday all the time)? Maybe I should start up a conversation with the lady next to me so I'll look popular... D'oh! Something on my shirt. Why did I wear these khaki's? I look like I'm freaking rushing FIJI... I should-

And then I see her... in her jeans and white, sleeveless shirt with her hair all blowing in the wind that seems to always surround airports (what's the deal with that, anyway?) and I feel those blue eyes lock with mine; I watch her lips curl into a smile... I might as well have been naked. -That's how I felt. Erin has always had a way of seeing right into me. Yeah, yeah I know it's cliche' but it really is true. It's like with her, not only is my inner monologue not so "inner" but she got an advance copy of it a couple days ago.

We greet with an embrace and a "hey babe" and then we close our eyes, lean in and kiss our first kiss right there in the middle of Waco Regional Airport for all the Texans to see. I could have sworn it was my first ever.

I open my eyes it's three days later and she's wearing glasses and my favorite Baylor hoodie that I gave her. As our embrace relaxes and she backs away from me toward the security checkpoint, our hands slide down each others arms and our fingertips catch. First she lets go of my right hand with her left and we linger on what will be our last contact for who knows how long. When we let let thos last few fingers relax, our hands fall to our sides as if they've failed their only purpose.

I say a prayer under my breath beseeching the Lord to watch over her and keep her safe; to bless his prettiest --and best smelling-- blessing to me.

As she is walking down the promenade to board her plane, she slows and looks over her shoulder. I mouth the words "I love you" and she mouths them back through watery eyes. I wink, the corner of her mouth curls upward and she walks through the door taking my heart with her.

It was a weekend of "firsts." Our first kiss. First time to Texas. First time to eat Thai. First Big Time (Big12) football game. Second time doing the "Sic 'em Bears" claw. First time meeting my friends. First time making out while watching The Lord of The Rings. (Ahh J.R.R., will your gifts to me never cease?) First time I've ever felt completely myself in front of someone with whom I don't share genes.

Now I only hope for a "last." I don't look forward to watching her walk away again.

Older and Wiser

One great expectation of being in Grad School that has completely come true is that of professor performance. In only my first semester, I've already been exposed to three excellent teachers. Martha Lou is great and completely disarming with her east-Texas accent. Also, she bleeds Green and Gold, just like me. Dr. Shushok is awesome, as expected. This week he facilitated what might have been the best classroom "workshop" and interactive-roleplaying experience I've ever experienced on Monday.

Then there's Dr. Robert C. Cloud. And he says his middle name, as if he were a General of old. Robert C. Cloud -- or RCC for short-- is the master of the dramatic teaching form; the commander of the 3-second pause. He has a way of literally reminding our class how smart and good looking we are at every meeting. He will take us from tears to laughs in the "flick of a cricket's leg."

I don't remember my grandfather. One died years before I was even conceived and the other, my namesake, died when I was very young. I remember tiny bits, I guess. I remember looking at a cartoon in a Sesame Street book and seeing a portrait on the wall of Bert's father and thinking I was reminded of Grandpa Veith. (He kind of had a pointy head). I remember after he died of a heart-attack giving my Grandma "hug-attacks". I remember Pipe smoke, but I don't really remember him in the flesh.

I guess I've had other Grandfather types. There was PeeWee Hestilow, the Brooks Hall night monitor for 14 years-dammit. PeeWee was the kind of person I thought I'd meet when I moved to Texas. From his silver handle-bar mustache to his Bryl-creamed hair, the man fit the part. He wore "cowboy shirts" adorned with the occasional longhorns or cow skull that were so starched with such vehemence that many of the S.P. Brooks staff were sure that's what kept him up right at times. He wore the Wranglers, tight and cowboy style. With that cramped of an environment, its a surprise he had 4 kids. Funny story- PeeWee had a set of keys he always kept locked up in the office locker. And on those keys he had a wooden peg attached to the keyring. For the life of us, we had a hell of a time trying to figure out its purpose. And then one night we saw him walk his rounds. PeeWee's Wranglers were so tight, that he couldn't fit his keys in his pocket, so he would just stick the peg in. To us, it was like watching two Pandas mate in the wild, you knew it happened, but you just never thought you'd see it. Seriously, I know how Jacques Cousteau must have felt.

I'm not a big sleeper, so many a late-night hour was spent hearing how good we rich "kids have it" and playing dominoes with the Baylor DPS officers as they'd stop by to "stretch their legs". I miss PeeWee a lot. He had a particular kind of wisdom one can only procure through a divorce, four boys, "tank-bustin' in Korea" and a wife named "Kitty". I remember the night PeeWee tried to talk Andrew Telep and myself into buying $800 Ostritch-skin Boots using the logic that if we spend $100 a year on "tenny-sneakers" --which I haven't spent in 2 years-- and his boots have lasted 20 years then it must be a good deal! Ahh, PeeWee. The world needs more of you.

But now I have RCC. RCC challenges us in a way we'd never thought he could. He has a way of engaging each and every one of us in class with every word he speaks. His clear-blue eyes have a way of finding every other set in the room when he speaks, demanding their attention -no- fixation. And every time he says "now listen to RCC on this one..." We are all rapt in concentration, fixed upon his every word.

Lately he's been reading to us at the end of every class and I can't help but feel as I might have felt --could I better remember-- when my Grandfather read to me. Last night, when I felt his raspy voice wash over me, I was taken to a different place:the bookbag sitting in my lap became my teddy bear, "chipmunk", and my jeans and Doc's were "footsie pajamas." For only a moment, I was little again and my life lay completely ahead of me. RCC made me feel as though I had all the potential in the world and that my life is but a book yet to be written. One can imagine my shock when I realized it was all true.

I cannot wait for Tuesday next.

Keepin' it "on lock"

"Whatever you do, don't tell 'em to 'shut up'."

This is my mantra as I walk down the hallway from a comfortable office with a big, leather chair towards towards the sound of laughter and mirth. As I hear a high-pitched laugh, I start to cringe. I must put an end to this. No one is going to have a good time. Not on my watch.

As The Graduate Assistant for Student-Athlete Services working in the Study Hall, I am the stamp-outer of fun --or at least any fun that requires or produces noise. I am a Nazi. "Surfing the net" will get you removed from the computer lab. Using a cell phone will get you signed out and sent home and talking back will get a note to the coaches. I don't play.

When I hear people enjoying themselves, it is my job to put an end to it. I am paid to be unpopular.

Such was not always the case. Once it was my job --nay, my vocation-- to not only allow people to have fun, but to contribute to it. At one point in time, my job was composed nearly completely of talking, "dialogues of difference" and discussions about spirituality, socialism, racism or communism. Name an "ism" and I've discussed it.

But no longer is that the case for this wanderer of the academy. Mine is now to stop the buck. And though I do it, at times, with a heavy heart, I have to remember that it is a heart that's getting free tuition and $750 a month.

If that's what heavy is, then pile it on.

Older brothers we've never had

I was having a tough time with life last summer. I was stressed from having, for the first time in my life, done mediocre work. An emotionally draining relationship had taken its toll on me and it was showing.

Coming into my senior year, I was supposed to be somewhat relaxed. As it was my last year as a CL, I was supposed to leading our staff. But as it was, I was shit. I had no stamina for drawn out discussions. I had no patience for difficult people. And worse of all, I had begun to get tunnel vision when being able to see outside the box had always been my greatest asset.

We all need a big brother. No matter how great a relationship may be with your parents, no matter how close you are with an older sister; there is something about a relationship with an older brother that simply can't be synthesized.

A big brother is like a father whose authority is derived completely from respect. It depends not at all upon the societal constructs that so strengthen the idea that we should trust our parents; "father knows best". A good older brother combines the wisdom of a more experienced man with the familiarity of a peer and the trust that can only be shared between family members.

I've always needed a big brother, but it just so happened that I was the oldest male to spring forth from Gregg and Milly's loins. I'll give you a minute to catch your breath.


As a result, I've been collecting older brother figures my entire life. My first was my cousin, Nick Short. I'll never forget the time when I was six...

"quit hitting yourself!" my cousin, Zach, would say as he slugged me in the jaw with my own fist as he lay atop me, straddling any escape I might make.

"Zach, that hurts!" I'd say through an already swelling lip.

"That's the point, 'Neeeeeeeeilly'" he'd sneer as he abandoned my fists for his own.

"Zach!!!", my cousin, Nick would roar as he rounded the corner to discover me in my predicament.

Instantly, Zach would roll over and start to sob and scream: "Get off me, Neil!" as if I were the one beating him up. The next couple moments almost always went the same as Nick would do something crude and gross to Zach as a penance for winning a fight against me. Often it would be a wedgie, a killer Indian burn, or my personal favorite: a lugey to the mouth.

Nick was, and in many ways still is, an older brother to me. But as we grew older I was forced to find other surrogate elder siblings. There was Joe & Steve in High School and then Spencer when I went to college. After Spencer there came Andrew and Chad.

Perhaps more than any other older-brother figures I've ever had, Chad and Andrew changed and affected me. I'll spare you the exact details, but it was they who helped me to see my tunnel vision. It was Chad and Andrew who took my hand and used it to slap myself in the face so that I would open my eyes to see the error of my ways. They didn't lead me out of my dark place, they dragged me kicking and screaming. They helped me to know that I was something more than a broken heart. They made me see that I was bigger than so much trash that one could cast aside.

As I was sitting across the table from Myles, and listing intently to whatever Zen-like wisdom Myles sometimes likes to dole out, I couldn't help but say a silent prayer to the Lord who has always blessed me with the older brothers I never had.

As a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs...

I want to say that grad. school is something special. I want to say that its great, amazing and expanding my borders.

Kinda yes, kinda no.

The classwork is a little more serious. The pressure is a little higher. But to be honest, the feel isn't much removed from my last real semester of college courses. Its actually pretty much the same. You really need to do the readings, which are sizable, and you need to get your junk done. We're treated as professionals.

But then again that may be a little of the problem. This whole "you're a big boy now" treatment is kind of undermining its own intent. If we're big kids, do we really need to be reminded?

But that's all the good stuff.

And for the inevitable "bad" stuff. Dealing with my fellow grad students has been more of the same crap. Don't get me wrong, I really like them. I mean, I really like them. I haven't been so impressed with a group of people since CL training.

But all that being said, we're a diverse group and some of us are bringing in the same ol' baggage that all people bring in. I hate having to deal with really competitive people at the beginning of a relationship. The initial posturing that has been taking place is inherent behavior amongst a group of people so "professional" and new as ours. We're all looking to be taken seriously and that requires putting up our best sides. We all want to make it known that we belong.

Well, most of us anyway.

I am not a competitive person. I do not care if I'm first, last or middle. And while I've always been addicted to attention, I've never felt the need to overshadow anyone else. The position of others in relation to myself has never been much of a concern. This makes people nervous.

There is a group member who I completely freak out. She is one of the most competitive people I've ever met. If someone mentions a date at which they left school, she left a month earlier. If someone shows up to class a minute before her one week, you had better believe she will come to class next week two minutes earlier than last. And then you throw me into her life. I know myself well enough to count being on time to be momentous and to be early damn-near miraculous.

I don't care if my team wins so long as everyone does well . I don't care if people think I'm crazy so long as they know me to be dependable. I don't care if I'm seen as intelligent so long as people feel I'm competent.

But then you throw me into the mix with all of these people trying to express themselves and impress our professors. They want others to see them as the future Deans, provost, Presidents and policy makers of Universities nationwide. They throw around words like "ramifications" and phrases like "let it be known" as if we know what we're talking about. And then there's me, I make jokes and point out ironies. I compliment people on their ties and try and organize football teams. I feel completely comfortable saying "I don't know" and it drives some people crazy.

I think my lack of posturing bothers my new friend. In a room full of robins puffing out their chests and singing their anthems of their accomplishments I'm the parakeet playing with a bell in the corner.

Does this mean I'm not nervous? Absolutely not. I just know this is what the Lord has called me to do. I believe the best lesson for leading is found in the story of David. He was given his throne. He became the King because he was the Lord's anointed. Leadership is not earned, its given. And shall it be with my accomplishments. I will work hard the task that I've been given. If I become more than my position, I'll be rewarded. But I'll never complain about my rank in life. Its enough to travail in the tasks we've been given.

Its not that I'm special. This knowledge doesn't make me enlightened. I only recognise that I'm different. Just like everyone else.

Bennie Hanna, MSG and Me.

Today is August 5th. It is my only brother's 21st birthday.

Throughout my very blessed life, I've had the pleasure of meeting many a character. I've had lunch with Billionaires and homeless bards. I've played been beaten in chess by mensa club members and old men in a park. I've conversed with Poet laureates and Grammy Award winners.

However, I don't believe I've ever met someone so completely interesting as my younger brother, Benjamin Warren Golemo.

I'm not sure how to describe my brother, Ben. I guess I could start of with the phrase: "he is loved." My brother is loved by everyone who has ever known him. For the life of me, I cannot think of one person who holds him in anything but the highest esteem.

He's the protector of all. He was the only one of the Golemo kids who ever required my parents to "meet with the principal". And the reason being because he pushed down a kid that had pushed down another, smaller, kid. My brother is not, nor has he ever been, a violent person. But he was imbued with an innate sense of justice, and has never failed to act upon it. But somehow, even the kids he was pushing down always got up with a deeper respect of my brother than they had had before.

It's so hard to stay angry at Bennie. He just has this "thanks for noticing me" type of personality. We used to call him "Eeyore" because he has this kind of trudging way about him. I remember one time when we were young, our parents had saw fit to take us on a rare trip to Dairy Queen. We were all ordering our sundaes, star-kisses, and Mister Misty's (cherry, for me) and my brother reached up and tugged on my Pappacho's shirt. My father looked down at him and said "Yes, Ben?"

"Well" he mumbled while looking down and kicking at his foot. "I don't suppose you'll get me a Chocolate cone, will ya?" -his frown already in place.

I need to point out here, that my brother is not a sarcastic person. I think that in the warfare of the verbal minefield that is our home, Ben has chosen to sign his own non-proliferation pact. He is simply too sincere to go that route. Besides, who wants to call an arial strike of cynicism when you can bludgeon them with wit?

My brother is someone whom doesn't' find it strange in the least to spend an hour or two in the corner of a room playing with his Incredible Hulk figurines. (Remember, he's 21.)

My dad used to have to bribe my brother to comb his hair. We used to have to bribe Bennie-hanna to do a lot of things. Every Sunday morning, my Dad would make my brother present himself to see what he intended to wear to Mass. And every Sunday, nearly without fail, my brother would appear on the landing wearing torn jeans and three t-shirts, layered, with his hair uncombed and invariably, his shoes untied.

Such has always been Ben's way. We would have to drag him everywhere because he never wanted to do anything. Just sit and "relax." Once, we went to Six Flags. My brother cried because he didn't want to go. Then he saw the double-decker carousel. He wanted to go. But then he cried because he didn't want to wait in line. Then he cried when he got on because he wanted it to start. Then he cried because he didn't want it to stop. He cried all day and had a better time than anyone else.

He's a hard worker. Probably the hardest worker of all the Golemos. But I will never forget him complaining to my mom when we had to clean the house before Dad got home, "Mom, we always have to clean. How come we never get to relax?"

He was also the one that coined the phrase "Screech Owl" in describing my half-Sicilian father who had a tendency to get a little worked up from time to time when one of us made a particularly nasty mess and forgot to clean it up. (We always blamed it on Beth, the baby.)

There are more "Ben" stories in our family than anyone else. And my family loves to regale others with them. Last summer when I brought my friend Kelli home, we had just missed Ben after he had left for his first year at West Point. I was pretty disappointed. So in an effort to make me feel better and let Kelli know exactly what she was missing, we all told Ben stories, did Ben impressions, and talked about all things Ben for the better part of 2 hours. I would say I was sorry for Kelli if I didn't know her side was just as sore as mine.

Bennie is about to start his second year at West Point where, I'm proud to admit, he is kicking arse. When we first found out about my brother's ambitions to attend that institution, we were a little shocked. Because Ben, well, lets just say Bennie has a style "all of his own." He's kind of punk, kind of grunge, kind of slob, and all "I don't give a crap what anyone thinks." He's such a free-spirit. So you can understand our surprise because you know how the Military loves individuality.

But I don't worry about Benjamin at West Point. He has a magnetic personality I'd kill to have. People are drawn to him. His friends are loyal in a way that inspires others to pledge their allegiance as well. Ben is the kind of person people want to follow, because they can be sure he will place their needs in front of his own and he'll be bewildered when someone thanks him for it.

I've been touched by many people who've blessed my life in real ways. People like Myles, who challenges me to be a better writer. Someone like Andrew Telep who has taught me to put my feet in someone else's shoes. Mary Gajewski, who has given me hope for women. My roommate Dave who has taught me there's real joy to be grabbed from every part of life, and its up to me to grab and squeeze. Greg and Jason; regulators of my ego, who've taught me friendship can endure any change or distance. My parents, who, more than anyone I've ever known, have set such an amazing example of Love and what it is to do so unconditionally. But to be honest, I'm not so sure that there's anyone who has taught me more about the kind of person I want to be, the things I want to be and the impact I want to have upon people, than my brother. My friends, if you hold me in any esteem at all, five minutes spent with my brother would show him to be twice the person I could hope to be.

Bennie, you're my hero, and the greatest gift I've ever been given. I'm forever in your debt for the impact you've had upon my life. Happy Birthday.

I love you.

"Three may keep a secret, if two are dead."

I love this quote by Ben Franklin. Its true. If one doesn't want a certain fact(s) about themselves spread about town, then one shouldn't share it. I rarely blame the person who blabs my hidden truths. Its a risk I take in trusting someone.

But then again, there's those people out there who tell all. They constantly pour their thoughts and emotions out for all to see. It all leads me to question their wisdom.

Myself, I believe there is a certain correlation between those things that we hold as "secrets" and those things that we know to be "sacred".

I like that I have secrets. I like that I have things about myself that only I know. It means that there are things I hold sacred. There are things that I want only myself and the Lord to share. It may be something so delicate as a John Donne poem rip-off or something so rambunctious as my impression of Louis Armstrong singing "Amazing Grace" I sing for my Savior in the shower. But they are special things that only he and I shall share. That makes them special. That makes them sacred.

Secrets are sometimes treated like emotional currency. People will confide in you to make you feel trusted. Just like people like the feeling of being entrusted with some previously unknown fact about someone else.

I submit that I think secrets are shared out of selfishness.

There's a reason why people sometimes feel the need to share their burdens. Knowing that a friend is suffering through a secret illness is a hard thing to deal with. It hurts. I can handle crap happening to me. I have a good audience with myself, so I know that I deserve just about anything I receive. I also know that the Lord will help me through it. I've never had to deal with that worst punisher of all, Despair.

However, when it comes to seeing a friend suffer, I fall apart. I'm not going to play. The world is a much simpler place in which to live when I know less of the evils it holds. But one way in which I can help people is share the knowledge of their troubles. I pray for them and, just as importantly, I hurt for them.

Never underestimate the comfort it can be for a person to know they aren't hurting alone.

But what about secrets of the more mundane sort? Things like "my roommate listens to Britney Spears when he's sad". Or, "My girlfriend is ticklish behind her knees and barks like a seal when I pinch her back there."

You know, I think these might be the most sacred secrets of all. One amazing example my parents have shown me is that they have moments that belong to absolutely no-one but the two of them, and the Holy Spirit, who blessed it. I remember asking my Pappacho about moments in their relationship. And while he thanked me with a teary eye for reminding him, he simply let excused himself for leaving that moment sacred.

I've never understood those people who could just leave their lives an "open book." I know that mostly, its because I'm so completely not built like that. But how are they able to maintain a balance of what is theirs, and what belongs to the world?

Myself, what happens between me and someone else is to stay between us. The time I was most hurt by love was that in which someone was reckless with my trust. But even though that trust may have been betrayed, I've kept my promise as best as I honestly could. I've kept the moments I most treasured locked away in the safe of my heart. You'd be surprised the strength such things can afford.

The thing I love about a moment in time is that it all happens in the mind. Yes, my first kiss actually happened. But all I know of it is what I remember. And any description of that instant in time is going to be skewed between the romanticism of my mind and the experiences that have happened hence. But in my mind, it is perfect. I rely not on my crappy vocabulary or prose to convey the moment. In my mind its happened thousands of times. Isn't that what really matters?

Sometimes when I try to explain a moment, I become a bumbling artist trying to release the instant from a block of stone. Only the more momentous the occasion, the less likely I'll be to do it justice. I feel horrible. My moment, beautiful and perfect in my head, has been reduced to a maimed figure hewn out of rough rock. Sometimes, isn't it better just to leave something perfect and untouched?

I feel as though this society has lost touch of what is sacred in this world. We throw around the name of Jesus and print it on baby-t's and call it Christianity. And you dare not question the wearer's sincerity, for you fear of appearing as if you love your savior less.

There are ceremonies too holy to be made into a T.V. show. We've lost that. Past family and my very closest friends, I couldn't give a rat's ass who comes to my wedding.

We've forgotten that there are things that shouldn't be shared with all to know. Yes, I understand the irony of my sharing this on a blog, but for every thing I post about my life here, there are 50 that I'll never tell a soul.

Having a secret always doesn't mean we're ashamed. Sometimes it means we hold something special, and holy. Pearls we wouldn't risk throwing before swine.

A Guest Submission by Ricky Dugal

My Crew.....

Now before I post anything more. I want to give a shot out to my crew. My posse. Better known as the BROOKS crew. Now as a kid growing up, one of my dreams was to have my own crew. And, now I can say I have one. My crew and I have had some great great times. I mean we roll. I have their back and they have mine. They have tattoos and chains with my name on it. If someone says something about me, my crew is right there to say "that's hearsay." They repeat everything I say. If I say lets go to the mall, then they repeat, "THE MALLL, we are going to the mallll, with Rigga." Its great. Not only do they repeat me, they copy everything I do. If I walk a certain way, they have to copy it. If I start chewing gum, they start chewing gum. If I start eating some Dunkin Donuts, then they copy me and they start eating Dunkin Donuts. Its great having a crew, and yall know who you are.

NBA players have posses or crews. Rappers have crews. Captain Kirk had a crew. Grandmothers whose sons play in the NBA have crews. It was time for me to start my own crew. You know, people that hung with me from way back. They are people that never turned their back on me when I wasn't a legend. People who look out for my best interests, so I look out for theirs. If they need an apartment?  DONE. They need a car? DONE. If they need tickets to games DONE, DONE. If they need a job? It's done. Its both a thank you for the years past and an assurance that they will forever kiss my ass and go along with whatever I say.

It doesn't matter if its ridiculous or just outright stupid. They have my back. I'm talking about guys who are down for me. I'm talking about guys who will help me commit crimes and then conspire with me to cover them up. And if you aren't part of the crew and think you should be, ask yourself that question. Would you do that for me?  I thought so. So get out of my face with that question girlfriend. Don't go there. Talk to the hand.

No more are crews reserved for NBA players, rappers, high-school golfers, NBA mothers/grandmothers et. al. I've gotten after it, paid my dues, bided my time and now it's finally here. I have my boys and they have my back. I say it, they repeat it. They don't question me or second-guess me. They just do as I say and as they're told. I keep them around, they keep me happy. If I say 2+2 = 5, I don't have to worry about hearing a lot of nonsense about how that's not the right answer. Those days are over. We hang out together, we roll in the Audi A-4 Cabrio together, we are Rigga and the Crew.

I have their back and they have mine.

If you are against the idea of me having my own crew you're in trouble. Don't go there, and get that out of my face. They're here to stay and will always have a place in my heart as long as Im alive. They throw the fast balls down the center over the plate, I knock it out of the park. They're my boys, they're my crew and we're rollin'! Rigga, keepin' it real.  

Speaking of dunkin donuts, they are the food equivalent of crack cocaine, plain and simple. If there ever needed to be an example of the law of diminishing returns, here it is. The first doughnut is like heaven on Earth. The sugar rush probably would incapacitate most individuals. Sugar shock is a likely result. You can't beat that first doughnut.

The only problem is that all of us try to match that experience with the second, third and sometimes fourth doughnuts. And for some reason we don't realize that we're actually getting less and less joy from the doughnuts. We're trying to re-experience that initial sugar-rush and it's just not possible. The more we eat, the further we get from reaching the goal.

If you haven't had a Dunkin donut before, imagine a block of sugar, syrup, butter and bread packed into a circular blob with a hole cut out. It sounds good (I think) and even tastes good...in moderation. But every single time, all of us get caught up in the euphoria of the first one. Next thing you know, you're rolling around in the office, climbing the walls and feeling like you drank 14 cups of coffee. And oh yeah, just gained 15 lbs. and 6 cavities. Other than that, they are great.

And you know my crew, the BROOKS crew. They always have my back. And when I have a Dunkin donut, they have to have one too. That's how we roll."Rigga gets a Dunkin donut, we all get Dunkin donuts!"

Ricky Dugal has his own site, www.riggamania.blogspot.com.  He's a dear friend and honest-to-God Brooks Legend.  At my request, he's finally begun to record his pearls of wisdom.
 
Holla,
Neil

The Walk of Life

I was talking to a friend the other night (last) and I made her laugh so hard she had to hang up to go throw up.  She says it has nothing to do with the margarita she had a dinner.  Sure.  At least she thought enough of me to give my ego some way to roll with the punch she had thrown in its direction.  Thanks, sweetie! ;)
 
After she called back, we were able to actually carry a fairly serious conversation -which was really a testament to our friendship.  Having a serious conversation with someone after something like that is kind of like arguing apologetics with someone in clown shoes.
 
So we were talking about some of my blogs lately.  I admitted to "being in love with the idea of being in love".  She expressed that might be a dangerous thing.
 
Oh contrare mon frere.  It's nothing I'm ashamed of.  I wouldn't wish to be different.  "Being in love with the idea of being in love" is kind of like having one foot larger than the other.  It's something of which I must be aware.  And its only really dangerous if I forget when going up some stairs... I'll let you draw whatever conclusions from that declaration/analogy you might.  (Knock yourself out, slugger.)
 
I realize now that I am indeed ready to feel with authenticity.
 
Everything in my life is showing this.  I'm no longer waiting to be ready to be ready.  I'm just simply ready.  Damn ready.
 
I'm not in a hurry.  Just ready.  I'm ready in the way that Michael Jordan was always ready to be the go-to guy.  He wasn't itching to take that last shot.  He just knew that when it was time, he'd be able to pull the trigger.
 
Prepared.  Yeah, that's a better way of putting it.
 
Every day I'm feeling more like myself.  The Lord has blessed my heart and helped me to power-spray off the mud and crud placed there by reckless hearts being reckless to my own.  It was a choice I made.  And I've been blessed with resilience.
 
Just because people have hurt you, doesn't mean you deserved to be hurt.
 
But yeah, I've got a few quirks.  I'm becoming my parents in some real ways.  I'm constantly cleaning, like my mother.  I caught myself yelling "God bless America" the other day, ala my Pappacho.
 
Sometimes I leave the stove on.  I have to have the bed made.  I'm obsessed with Spider Man and the Cubs.  (If that's news to you, I'll give you a hammer for you to use upon the side of your skull).  I sometimes forget that non-stick pots shouldn't be machine-washed.  I'm not perfect at all.
 
I do these stupid things.  And yet, I'm kind of proud of them.  I know that I should work on my imperfections, and yes, if I forget to turn off the stove I guess the place could burn down.  But I'm proud of my stupid little idiosyncrasies because those are the things that make me... well, ME.  Those are the things that are going to make some woman fall deeply and madly in love with me.  -Or rather, not because of these things, but despite these things.
 
You see, I've realized a thing or two about life.  I no longer care how the average Baylor girl sees me.  I realize that on the surface, I'm a pudgy, cheeky, perpetually middle-class, smart mouth with an obsession with a loser baseball team and his own prose.  But you know what?  That's what I am.
 
And being exactly what I appear to be has become so very liberating.  What you see with me, is what you get.  I love with everything I have.  And somebody, someday, is going to find my particular kind of crazy something she can't live without.
 
Why do I want love so badly?  Its because that is why we were meant to be.  When we fell, we lost our ability to know exactly how to love the Lord.  That's why we have each other.  Every time my Mom sends me a random text message telling me: "I'm so proud of you! I love you up to the sky and back!" for no other reason than she's in Colorado and thinking of me, I know a little bit better what it is to know God.
 
When I smoke a pipe with my roommate, Dave, I know a little better how God wants me to be happy.
 
I imagine that someday, when I'm telling my wife to lay down and I'll feed the colicky baby -when I see the face of that wriggling little miracle in my own hands, I'll get it, if only for an instant, why it is that we are meant to be.
 
I'm sorry I can't say this as well as my heart knows.  My words fumble.  If I was Michelangelo, I'd create a sculpture to express myself.  If I was a musician, I'd get Dire Straits to write a song with me about it. 
 
I guess I'll just have to be okay with screaming from my own little soapbox while others shuffle along the walks of their lives.
 
Insert the Keyboard riff...

PS, Charlotte, I'm not that funny, hot-stuff.  You need to get out more.  Maybe you should make a call to Lubbock? ;)