Tonight I found out that a very good friend of mine, Jacob Burling, died in a Car Crash.
I do not know what to think. My cousin tried to call me but I was in a movie. I sent him a text message telling him I'd call after and he just replied: "Dont bad news jake burling is dead car accident."
I do not know what to think. Its as though the words are a bullet shot into a room full of bells. It's just bouncing around here and there, to and fro. But eventually... eventually it will stick.
My prayers for Jacob's family and many many friends.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Monday, December 05, 2005
I'm not my Stinking khaki's
Is it me? Or does our society celebrate being "young" wayyyy too much? And we don't celebrate being old at all. To me, this freaking sucks because we're having fewer children, and living longer.
WTF?
If you look around the world today, watch the TV, listen to the music, eat the food, shop in the stores, you're going to see nearly everything is marketed to youth.
What is so great about being young? I can understand the nostalgia of blissful ignorance when my world, quite litterally, ended past the corner of 19th street and was naught but a vision outside the windows of my family's caravan. But now that I think about it, I wish I had better understood my world. I would have talked to my grandfather and not worried so much about the new Lindsay Lohan album or NES. I would have spent more time with the nerdy girl who loved the "real me" in high school and less with the one that only wanted me for a trophy. Cause we KNOW which gained the freshman 50 and which one is currently curing cancer.
Yeah, I'm the trophy, Myles.
Call me a fan of a Liberal Arts Education, but young kids are called young kids for a reason. They're dumb. They're stupid. They don't even know enough of the world to know they know nothing of the world.
If you don't have any money in this world, then you really have no power. This is a basic truth. But there's another side to that coin. If you don't have any money, then you can't do any harm, either. I read all the time that the reason for this marketing towards youth and teenagers is because A) they are dumb enough to fall for billboards, snappy ads and Carson Daly and B) they are the ones with the skyrocketing disposible income. Income? Income? Since when did a 3-6 after school job count as income?
Parents, don't give your kids money.
What is happening now in America is making me sick. Cause it turns out that teenagers aren't the only ones falling for the propaganda that tells them they're the best and that High School is the best time of their lives. It turns out that we really all think Laguna Beach is bitchin'.
I don't want to be a teenager, but damn, they can do whatever they want. They're free to drink and screw and do... -under the safety net of daddy's tax shelter. Surprisingly warm there. And Dr. Spock has a generation of kids who don't know the sweet perspective of pain past having to settle for the green Dodge as opposed to the red VW.
I cry.
How do we fix things? Well there are a lot of clever ways. For instance, we can let every shitty Ashlee Simpson/Usher/Hillary Duff movie be just a smidge more realistic. They can look immature, and stupid, as they should. Ashlee doesn't get her own apartment at the age of 17. Usher has someone not take a check he tries to write because the check number is below #50. And Hillary Duff has a really bad case of Cramps, realizes that a mediocre voice really can't win some fella's heart and that trying some stupid scheme to do something sweet for someone else doesn't turn out for the best, has serious consequences and people are really hurt.
Oh, and they could also put real teenagers in the roles played by teenagers. THAT would help a lot. Chad Michael Murray is 32 years old. I swear to God.
Whatever. I need sleep. I'm out of soap anyway.
WTF?
If you look around the world today, watch the TV, listen to the music, eat the food, shop in the stores, you're going to see nearly everything is marketed to youth.
What is so great about being young? I can understand the nostalgia of blissful ignorance when my world, quite litterally, ended past the corner of 19th street and was naught but a vision outside the windows of my family's caravan. But now that I think about it, I wish I had better understood my world. I would have talked to my grandfather and not worried so much about the new Lindsay Lohan album or NES. I would have spent more time with the nerdy girl who loved the "real me" in high school and less with the one that only wanted me for a trophy. Cause we KNOW which gained the freshman 50 and which one is currently curing cancer.
Yeah, I'm the trophy, Myles.
Call me a fan of a Liberal Arts Education, but young kids are called young kids for a reason. They're dumb. They're stupid. They don't even know enough of the world to know they know nothing of the world.
If you don't have any money in this world, then you really have no power. This is a basic truth. But there's another side to that coin. If you don't have any money, then you can't do any harm, either. I read all the time that the reason for this marketing towards youth and teenagers is because A) they are dumb enough to fall for billboards, snappy ads and Carson Daly and B) they are the ones with the skyrocketing disposible income. Income? Income? Since when did a 3-6 after school job count as income?
Parents, don't give your kids money.
What is happening now in America is making me sick. Cause it turns out that teenagers aren't the only ones falling for the propaganda that tells them they're the best and that High School is the best time of their lives. It turns out that we really all think Laguna Beach is bitchin'.
I don't want to be a teenager, but damn, they can do whatever they want. They're free to drink and screw and do... -under the safety net of daddy's tax shelter. Surprisingly warm there. And Dr. Spock has a generation of kids who don't know the sweet perspective of pain past having to settle for the green Dodge as opposed to the red VW.
I cry.
How do we fix things? Well there are a lot of clever ways. For instance, we can let every shitty Ashlee Simpson/Usher/Hillary Duff movie be just a smidge more realistic. They can look immature, and stupid, as they should. Ashlee doesn't get her own apartment at the age of 17. Usher has someone not take a check he tries to write because the check number is below #50. And Hillary Duff has a really bad case of Cramps, realizes that a mediocre voice really can't win some fella's heart and that trying some stupid scheme to do something sweet for someone else doesn't turn out for the best, has serious consequences and people are really hurt.
Oh, and they could also put real teenagers in the roles played by teenagers. THAT would help a lot. Chad Michael Murray is 32 years old. I swear to God.
Whatever. I need sleep. I'm out of soap anyway.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Prairie State Perspective (refreshed)
A 10-day weekend for Thanksgiving. It looks like a lot when I see it in type, really.
I don't have class on Fridays and my cohort is given a free "no questions asked" walk on our Tuesday class to use at our discretion. Add to that a heart-felt phone call to the professor of my Monday class explaining how my mother bought an extra ticket to see the national tour of Wicked on the 18th in St Louis on the off-chance that yours truly would be able to attend with her, you see how I got this wondrous block of days to vacate my everyday circumstances.
I took a morning flight out of Dallas into St. Louis. I had about 7 hours to waste, so I took the Metrolink downtown, found a Starbucks and camped out. Hence the previous caffeine-laced post. However, I was surprised at how nervous I was to be coming home.
You see, there's this certain phenomenon that takes place when anyone who has any semblance of a life somewhere, "goes home." I'll try to explain.
In Waco, I am a respected -okay semi-respected- Graduate Assistant with Baylor Student Athlete Services. It's a tough job and not for the faint of heart. I'm constantly walking the line between being "cool": understanding the lingo, knowing when to laugh, being able to jab and cut with my own lines, being able to be funny. And sometimes I have to be "hard": sniffing out lies, disciplining, kicking athletes out, writing reports to coaches, etc. I think I do a very good job.
And then there's Graduate school. In my classes, being surrounded by very smart and intelligent people driven in earnest pursuit of knowledge insists I stay on my toes. I have professors who push me and a mentor that kicks me and friends that challenge me.
So how is it then, if I am so grown-up, that the very moment I pass the "Hamilton: Pop. 3,300" sign, I cease to be Neil Golemo, Future Student Services Professional and am once again, Neil Golemo, Gregg and Milly's kid, the one who's throw up in the fake potted plant outside the Nurse's office? (Not once, but twice)
This phenomenon truly fascinates me. How is it that I can go from waxing intellectual about what Bonhoefer would say about the debt-load of the average college graduate to having a wet-willy war with my little sister? (she's 20 years old, but in my mind she'll always be 6 years-old and wearing her first-communion dress) I'll say this much. Its fun... for the most part. Oh and for the record, I think 'ol Dietrich would have been "against it."
There was a time where I couldn't wait to leave a Hamilton. I hated it. It was killing me. It was, as Myles told me the first time we ever conversed, "the kudzu around my legs." And believe-you-me, I needed to leave. Leaving Hamilton/Illinois was perhaps the best/ballsy-est thing I've ever done for myself; it was good for me in so many ways. It was a cooling bath of water that hardened me.
I've grown up so much since then. My friends I've made at Baylor are the best I've ever had. (I can just hear every one of them yelling "FAG!" over my shoulder) I am not Gregg and Milly's son. I am not Neil Golemo, super-Christian, holier than thou, didn't drink all through high school, National Merit Scholar, perfect person (vomit). I am not the "miracle child" of whom so much is expected. I can just be Neil, here. I got a clean start.
Despite my relapses, I am not the same Neil I used to be. -Okay, so maybe I didn't toss my childish ways quite far enough. I might not have thrown them, but at least I've loosened my strangle-grip on them. And being away has done that for me. It's let me escape the unchanging definition of me that so makes people feel safe.
But you know, now it feels as though coming back to Illinois might be yet another stage in who I am. In a strange way, we really don't ever change. We just grow. A tree still has its innermost rings and I will always be "Gregg and Milly's boy." And to some, I will always be remembered for the places in which I've retched... But I think that's a good thing. We can never be here without first having been there. As much as I'd like to pretend to be all branches and leaves, I can't forget that I have my roots. It does me good to remember that.
It's sorta like Monet's glance from the canvas back to the actual haystacks. I'm still a work in progress, but its the perspective that can allow me to be a masterpiece. Here's to my own personal Renaissance
I don't have class on Fridays and my cohort is given a free "no questions asked" walk on our Tuesday class to use at our discretion. Add to that a heart-felt phone call to the professor of my Monday class explaining how my mother bought an extra ticket to see the national tour of Wicked on the 18th in St Louis on the off-chance that yours truly would be able to attend with her, you see how I got this wondrous block of days to vacate my everyday circumstances.
I took a morning flight out of Dallas into St. Louis. I had about 7 hours to waste, so I took the Metrolink downtown, found a Starbucks and camped out. Hence the previous caffeine-laced post. However, I was surprised at how nervous I was to be coming home.
You see, there's this certain phenomenon that takes place when anyone who has any semblance of a life somewhere, "goes home." I'll try to explain.
In Waco, I am a respected -okay semi-respected- Graduate Assistant with Baylor Student Athlete Services. It's a tough job and not for the faint of heart. I'm constantly walking the line between being "cool": understanding the lingo, knowing when to laugh, being able to jab and cut with my own lines, being able to be funny. And sometimes I have to be "hard": sniffing out lies, disciplining, kicking athletes out, writing reports to coaches, etc. I think I do a very good job.
And then there's Graduate school. In my classes, being surrounded by very smart and intelligent people driven in earnest pursuit of knowledge insists I stay on my toes. I have professors who push me and a mentor that kicks me and friends that challenge me.
So how is it then, if I am so grown-up, that the very moment I pass the "Hamilton: Pop. 3,300" sign, I cease to be Neil Golemo, Future Student Services Professional and am once again, Neil Golemo, Gregg and Milly's kid, the one who's throw up in the fake potted plant outside the Nurse's office? (Not once, but twice)
This phenomenon truly fascinates me. How is it that I can go from waxing intellectual about what Bonhoefer would say about the debt-load of the average college graduate to having a wet-willy war with my little sister? (she's 20 years old, but in my mind she'll always be 6 years-old and wearing her first-communion dress) I'll say this much. Its fun... for the most part. Oh and for the record, I think 'ol Dietrich would have been "against it."
There was a time where I couldn't wait to leave a Hamilton. I hated it. It was killing me. It was, as Myles told me the first time we ever conversed, "the kudzu around my legs." And believe-you-me, I needed to leave. Leaving Hamilton/Illinois was perhaps the best/ballsy-est thing I've ever done for myself; it was good for me in so many ways. It was a cooling bath of water that hardened me.
I've grown up so much since then. My friends I've made at Baylor are the best I've ever had. (I can just hear every one of them yelling "FAG!" over my shoulder) I am not Gregg and Milly's son. I am not Neil Golemo, super-Christian, holier than thou, didn't drink all through high school, National Merit Scholar, perfect person (vomit). I am not the "miracle child" of whom so much is expected. I can just be Neil, here. I got a clean start.
Despite my relapses, I am not the same Neil I used to be. -Okay, so maybe I didn't toss my childish ways quite far enough. I might not have thrown them, but at least I've loosened my strangle-grip on them. And being away has done that for me. It's let me escape the unchanging definition of me that so makes people feel safe.
But you know, now it feels as though coming back to Illinois might be yet another stage in who I am. In a strange way, we really don't ever change. We just grow. A tree still has its innermost rings and I will always be "Gregg and Milly's boy." And to some, I will always be remembered for the places in which I've retched... But I think that's a good thing. We can never be here without first having been there. As much as I'd like to pretend to be all branches and leaves, I can't forget that I have my roots. It does me good to remember that.
It's sorta like Monet's glance from the canvas back to the actual haystacks. I'm still a work in progress, but its the perspective that can allow me to be a masterpiece. Here's to my own personal Renaissance
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Drunk Posting is so Trashy.
Next time, I promise never to do it again.
On a side note. I'm finally going to send in some of my posts. If anyone has any ones that they find particularly fun, let a fella know. And tell me too.
On a side note. I'm finally going to send in some of my posts. If anyone has any ones that they find particularly fun, let a fella know. And tell me too.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
My Brother, The Genius
I just had what could possibly be, the moment for which I've been praying my entire damned life.
It started out innocuous enough. The day after Thanksgiving, my favorite holida (0utside my birthday. So I'm an ass, sue me.) We woke up aroudn 10 and went to go play walley-ball. It was two hours of completley un-coordinated fun (walleyball is impossible to be good at. Screw you, Paul O'Neil for trying to give me any God-damned advice on where to stand, you smug asshole.) . And that's why I like it. We're all equal.
Anyway, afterwards, Bennie-hanna, younger brother extrordinaire and I went home to take 5 minute (count-em, 5-minute) showers and retrieve Ben's significant other/girlfriend of 4+ years, Erin O'Neil (related to the smug bastard, Paul of the same surname). 2 showers and a couple of Gold-Bond splashes to the nethers later (I taught him that) we were meeting the rest of the famn Golemo damily in the River City Mall to see "Walk the Line." Great movie. Honestly. Kicked my butt. Made me want to stop drinking. That's wHy Ivey swtihced ot gUienns nd dicer only. [sips Hornsby (John I love you, baby)]
For the record, Bonhoeffer would fucking LOVE ME right now.
After that, we went and played Apples to Apples. A great game I've heard about for years. Madame, mi madre, kicked everyone's ass. Because no one better, on God's green and purple earth, has the ability to think like other people, than my mother. She kicked our asses. All 9 of us.
As the game was ending, I recieved a phone-call from my favorite person ever to graduate from a Catholic school, (other than Pappacho) Tom "my dad's ironically a foot doctor" Sowlles. He says everyone's going to the place my parent's always told me I couldn't go: The "crew." Resident local bar/Den of iniquity.
"I'm in." I say.
I drive my cousin Andee's car, as well as Andee herself (sorry, I'm reading Restaurant at The End of The Universe right now) to said bar. [Enter smokey entrance] Andee is the shit (and a female) and all is good. We kick ass and in the process, names are taken. Good times.
Eventually, such a bombardment of "wasn't it great back when's" and "remember the time you did that's" and "I'll never forget when you kicked that teacher in the ear's" began to get to me. So I decided my brother and his significant other/girlfriend, Erin O'Neill (sister of that smug bastard, Paul of the same surname) should share in the "fun." It'd be good for them.
So I leave (without hollaring at my ex-girlfriend, Nikki McVeigh-even if you still look hot) and drive home and tell my brother that pretty much half of his grade is at the Crew (for the record 12 kids is nearly, in fact, half his grade). He and Erin, under a blanket and sitting upright is a little weird, but I don't ask... or make eye-contact, agree to come with us. "It'll be interesting, they say" (Erin's still pissed because people never cared about my brother until he went to West Point the year after 9/11... which may be slightly true).
But I'll say this much. I wanted my brother to go. Because I've realized this much in my years since High School. If I can grow up even a smidge. Then other people can too, god-damnit. Zach Steinman has. And Jesus-knows, Zach Steinman... well anyone knows-knows. I wanted his approval so much. It broke my heart in high-school when he told me "y'know, Golemo, how popular you'd be if you drank?" And yet, I think he gets where I was, now. If he can get it, 3 years after my graduation, other can, too. Plus, even if your interests are purely sociological, its hella-fun.
So we all go. I've not had a drink. So much fun. I actually, for the first time since watching my 18-month-old cousin learn my name, got to watch someone learn as I saw my brother learn the same lesson I've learned 3 or 4 times over, because once isn't enough for the average genius.
One night of me choiffering (sp?) Bennie and his significant other/girlfriend of 4+ years Erin O'Neill (sister of the smug bastard of the same surname) around, we end up in our kitchen drinking tastey beers (imported) and remembering better times and how perspective can kick all our asses...
Zoned out for a second listening to music.
Zach "the man" Allen leaves.
Erin O'Neill (sister of the smug bastard of the same surname) needed to go home... cause its 3 AM.
"I can walk," she moronically states.
"It's Illinois" as if anyone had forgotten "its 22 degrees outside. You're not walking home."
[skipping stupid not-so-witty reparte.]
I'm driving her home, in the back seat of my dad's second-hand Luxury Buick/"Old-Man-Mobile" (but he really likes it) with Ben in the back seat. I'm driving Ms and Mr. Daisey.
They smoochey-woochie at her front door.
Ben and I start to chat. He's pissed about things. I'm wanting to hear about him. "Tell me something important" my jewish-mother mantra as become. "Seriously." He pours.
I dole out brotherly advice. And honestly, we end up having a wonderful conversation. I drive my father's (surprisingly comfortable) car around all the tracks for about45 mintutes. My brother, the best friend and God's greatest-ever gift to me, have a wonderful convo. We talk about both the important and the retarded-everyday that so makes up a brother's life. A child's life.
I feel like a good man. I tell him how I only want to affect people. I tell him about Jonah and he says he reads my blog about him.... a lot. I choke back the tears.
And then we come back to the kitchen and talk about authors, theology and the girl I dig between bouts with our toilet. (number 2 comes when it comes)
We listen to some Death Cab and I write this blog.
I love my brother. He loves me. He says my life has improved our families. I can die at 5:45 proud. But I hope I live 'til 10 AM. Cause Pappacho's taking me and Bennie to see Camp Eastman at 8. We've planned to ask him about Grandpa and Grandma Golemo. All we know, between the two of us, is that He was a medic in the 82nd, had an Eagle and that She could, in one movement, kick her shoe off her foot and hit a running pappacho in the back of the head with it as he was fleeing the room. We want more.
I love you Bennie. I love you, dad. I love you God.
Kisses,
Neil
It started out innocuous enough. The day after Thanksgiving, my favorite holida (0utside my birthday. So I'm an ass, sue me.) We woke up aroudn 10 and went to go play walley-ball. It was two hours of completley un-coordinated fun (walleyball is impossible to be good at. Screw you, Paul O'Neil for trying to give me any God-damned advice on where to stand, you smug asshole.) . And that's why I like it. We're all equal.
Anyway, afterwards, Bennie-hanna, younger brother extrordinaire and I went home to take 5 minute (count-em, 5-minute) showers and retrieve Ben's significant other/girlfriend of 4+ years, Erin O'Neil (related to the smug bastard, Paul of the same surname). 2 showers and a couple of Gold-Bond splashes to the nethers later (I taught him that) we were meeting the rest of the famn Golemo damily in the River City Mall to see "Walk the Line." Great movie. Honestly. Kicked my butt. Made me want to stop drinking. That's wHy Ivey swtihced ot gUienns nd dicer only. [sips Hornsby (John I love you, baby)]
For the record, Bonhoeffer would fucking LOVE ME right now.
After that, we went and played Apples to Apples. A great game I've heard about for years. Madame, mi madre, kicked everyone's ass. Because no one better, on God's green and purple earth, has the ability to think like other people, than my mother. She kicked our asses. All 9 of us.
As the game was ending, I recieved a phone-call from my favorite person ever to graduate from a Catholic school, (other than Pappacho) Tom "my dad's ironically a foot doctor" Sowlles. He says everyone's going to the place my parent's always told me I couldn't go: The "crew." Resident local bar/Den of iniquity.
"I'm in." I say.
I drive my cousin Andee's car, as well as Andee herself (sorry, I'm reading Restaurant at The End of The Universe right now) to said bar. [Enter smokey entrance] Andee is the shit (and a female) and all is good. We kick ass and in the process, names are taken. Good times.
Eventually, such a bombardment of "wasn't it great back when's" and "remember the time you did that's" and "I'll never forget when you kicked that teacher in the ear's" began to get to me. So I decided my brother and his significant other/girlfriend, Erin O'Neill (sister of that smug bastard, Paul of the same surname) should share in the "fun." It'd be good for them.
So I leave (without hollaring at my ex-girlfriend, Nikki McVeigh-even if you still look hot) and drive home and tell my brother that pretty much half of his grade is at the Crew (for the record 12 kids is nearly, in fact, half his grade). He and Erin, under a blanket and sitting upright is a little weird, but I don't ask... or make eye-contact, agree to come with us. "It'll be interesting, they say" (Erin's still pissed because people never cared about my brother until he went to West Point the year after 9/11... which may be slightly true).
But I'll say this much. I wanted my brother to go. Because I've realized this much in my years since High School. If I can grow up even a smidge. Then other people can too, god-damnit. Zach Steinman has. And Jesus-knows, Zach Steinman... well anyone knows-knows. I wanted his approval so much. It broke my heart in high-school when he told me "y'know, Golemo, how popular you'd be if you drank?" And yet, I think he gets where I was, now. If he can get it, 3 years after my graduation, other can, too. Plus, even if your interests are purely sociological, its hella-fun.
So we all go. I've not had a drink. So much fun. I actually, for the first time since watching my 18-month-old cousin learn my name, got to watch someone learn as I saw my brother learn the same lesson I've learned 3 or 4 times over, because once isn't enough for the average genius.
One night of me choiffering (sp?) Bennie and his significant other/girlfriend of 4+ years Erin O'Neill (sister of the smug bastard of the same surname) around, we end up in our kitchen drinking tastey beers (imported) and remembering better times and how perspective can kick all our asses...
Zoned out for a second listening to music.
Zach "the man" Allen leaves.
Erin O'Neill (sister of the smug bastard of the same surname) needed to go home... cause its 3 AM.
"I can walk," she moronically states.
"It's Illinois" as if anyone had forgotten "its 22 degrees outside. You're not walking home."
[skipping stupid not-so-witty reparte.]
I'm driving her home, in the back seat of my dad's second-hand Luxury Buick/"Old-Man-Mobile" (but he really likes it) with Ben in the back seat. I'm driving Ms and Mr. Daisey.
They smoochey-woochie at her front door.
Ben and I start to chat. He's pissed about things. I'm wanting to hear about him. "Tell me something important" my jewish-mother mantra as become. "Seriously." He pours.
I dole out brotherly advice. And honestly, we end up having a wonderful conversation. I drive my father's (surprisingly comfortable) car around all the tracks for about45 mintutes. My brother, the best friend and God's greatest-ever gift to me, have a wonderful convo. We talk about both the important and the retarded-everyday that so makes up a brother's life. A child's life.
I feel like a good man. I tell him how I only want to affect people. I tell him about Jonah and he says he reads my blog about him.... a lot. I choke back the tears.
And then we come back to the kitchen and talk about authors, theology and the girl I dig between bouts with our toilet. (number 2 comes when it comes)
We listen to some Death Cab and I write this blog.
I love my brother. He loves me. He says my life has improved our families. I can die at 5:45 proud. But I hope I live 'til 10 AM. Cause Pappacho's taking me and Bennie to see Camp Eastman at 8. We've planned to ask him about Grandpa and Grandma Golemo. All we know, between the two of us, is that He was a medic in the 82nd, had an Eagle and that She could, in one movement, kick her shoe off her foot and hit a running pappacho in the back of the head with it as he was fleeing the room. We want more.
I love you Bennie. I love you, dad. I love you God.
Kisses,
Neil
Friday, November 18, 2005
L minus the Cool J.
I'm not going to kid you, gentle readers, I'm having a bit of trouble starting this Blog. I was thinking of starting off with something like "I remember the time I punched Racism in the kidney... that was sweet" but I wasn't diggin that. Too completely pointless.
I'm pondering Love. I was wondering if I've ever Loved anyone. I would say "no." I love my mom. I love my brothers and sisters. I love my athletes and I love my friends and family. I love the guy whose coffee I just randomly bought. He looked cold, and his jacket had a hole in it. And this Gingerbread Latte really IS too good not to share.
I think sometimes I just need to start writing.
I'll just jump into it. Love is not a feeling. Its a choice. People get pissed off when you say that. Because we've been raised on after-school specials and the OC and "The Notebook" on screens in houses where parents let their children learn morality while they are chasing careers in directions that veer like a) "women drivers on cough syrup" (Annie Spruell gave me that), b) "two bottle rockets tied to a shoe" (Trevor, the 8-year-old in Starbucks two tables away from me contributed that gem), or finally, c) "a dog chasing a mailman with a right leg 4 inches shorter than the left (That gem was given to me by Bethany Rose "don't make a perverted joke about my last name" Pettit).
Movies like Hitch, pretty much any collaboration of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, or any movie where the audience doesn't see more than five minutes after the courtship, though rife with zany and awkward Ben Stiller moments they may be, don't give us an accurate idea of what "love" is. They tell us about Attraction and Connection and Caring. But Love? Not so much. They're what I would refer to as "emotional pornography."
To be absolutely honest, they really are a form of pornography when you think about it. They're completely idealized, over-simplified, staged and utterly unrealistic. No one ever really talks like that and the music tends to be cheesey as well. But I digress...
As I said above, Love is a choice. It's a choice to be loyal to, care about, and put your feelings below the needs of, someone else. Come what may.
Oh, and lets discuss "come what may." The "what" is short for "whatever" as in "come whatever in the world that could possibly come, we don't care. It won't shake my resolve to love this person." Possible things that may come: Halitosis, a big fat gut, alcoholism, jiggle in the thighs, cancer, annoying wheezing laugh, quadrapolegia, colostomies and their corresponding bags, losing a job, children, loss of children, a third chin, Disease, depression, an obsession with Dungeons & Dragons, a taste for expensive jewelry/bling, receding hairlines, proceeding waistlines, loss of hearing, the inability to cook a simple bag of popcorn without burning it, dammit... That's a short list.
When you marry someone, you're making a promise to continue to make that promise again and again and again and again. And then some more.
And I've never done this. I've had my fair share of relationships, and I've given up on every single one of them thus far. Sometimes it was my choice, and believe-it-or-not, sometimes it wasn't. But there's one thing in common of all my relationships (besides the fact that I was in them... [sad face-melting-into self-deprecating laugh]) : I've given up on them all.
Right now, I feel like I'm noodles on a rolling boil. I'm everywhere and everything but settled, but eventually, I know that I'll get to the point where if I'm thrown against a wall, I'll stick. (That's a metaphor, everyone.)
Here's to being Al Dente. Here's to making it stick. Here's to choosing to give up the right to choose.
I'm pondering Love. I was wondering if I've ever Loved anyone. I would say "no." I love my mom. I love my brothers and sisters. I love my athletes and I love my friends and family. I love the guy whose coffee I just randomly bought. He looked cold, and his jacket had a hole in it. And this Gingerbread Latte really IS too good not to share.
I think sometimes I just need to start writing.
I'll just jump into it. Love is not a feeling. Its a choice. People get pissed off when you say that. Because we've been raised on after-school specials and the OC and "The Notebook" on screens in houses where parents let their children learn morality while they are chasing careers in directions that veer like a) "women drivers on cough syrup" (Annie Spruell gave me that), b) "two bottle rockets tied to a shoe" (Trevor, the 8-year-old in Starbucks two tables away from me contributed that gem), or finally, c) "a dog chasing a mailman with a right leg 4 inches shorter than the left (That gem was given to me by Bethany Rose "don't make a perverted joke about my last name" Pettit).
Movies like Hitch, pretty much any collaboration of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, or any movie where the audience doesn't see more than five minutes after the courtship, though rife with zany and awkward Ben Stiller moments they may be, don't give us an accurate idea of what "love" is. They tell us about Attraction and Connection and Caring. But Love? Not so much. They're what I would refer to as "emotional pornography."
To be absolutely honest, they really are a form of pornography when you think about it. They're completely idealized, over-simplified, staged and utterly unrealistic. No one ever really talks like that and the music tends to be cheesey as well. But I digress...
As I said above, Love is a choice. It's a choice to be loyal to, care about, and put your feelings below the needs of, someone else. Come what may.
Oh, and lets discuss "come what may." The "what" is short for "whatever" as in "come whatever in the world that could possibly come, we don't care. It won't shake my resolve to love this person." Possible things that may come: Halitosis, a big fat gut, alcoholism, jiggle in the thighs, cancer, annoying wheezing laugh, quadrapolegia, colostomies and their corresponding bags, losing a job, children, loss of children, a third chin, Disease, depression, an obsession with Dungeons & Dragons, a taste for expensive jewelry/bling, receding hairlines, proceeding waistlines, loss of hearing, the inability to cook a simple bag of popcorn without burning it, dammit... That's a short list.
When you marry someone, you're making a promise to continue to make that promise again and again and again and again. And then some more.
And I've never done this. I've had my fair share of relationships, and I've given up on every single one of them thus far. Sometimes it was my choice, and believe-it-or-not, sometimes it wasn't. But there's one thing in common of all my relationships (besides the fact that I was in them... [sad face-melting-into self-deprecating laugh]) : I've given up on them all.
Right now, I feel like I'm noodles on a rolling boil. I'm everywhere and everything but settled, but eventually, I know that I'll get to the point where if I'm thrown against a wall, I'll stick. (That's a metaphor, everyone.)
Here's to being Al Dente. Here's to making it stick. Here's to choosing to give up the right to choose.
Monday, November 07, 2005
When you can't think of anything to write... write what you're thinking
Yeah so I was walking from my apt to Common Grounds (local coffee shop) one night over fall break a year ago or so and I cut through the Collins Parking Lot. I got to that dark corner where you always see the raccoons and I walk by this car parked right next to the sidewalk. As I get close to it, I notice its sorta bouncing. Its late, and I had junk on my mind and I wasn't really thinking and then I walked right by it and I hear "Jesus... [moan]oh GOD[moan/]!"
At this point, my Porndar goes off and I turn back. I see the sillhouettes... wow. I blushed and clapped and kept on going. I was still giggling like a little girl when I met up with my date. Needless to say, it got the conversation going with the lady-friend... ifyouknowwhatImeanandIthinkyoudo... right. We mutually decided she needed to go home and wash her hair and it was totally mutual.
Sometimes I cry when no one's around.
(whoa, totally give away small-town origins when you reference anything to where you can see a certain type of animal... BID)
At this point, my Porndar goes off and I turn back. I see the sillhouettes... wow. I blushed and clapped and kept on going. I was still giggling like a little girl when I met up with my date. Needless to say, it got the conversation going with the lady-friend... ifyouknowwhatImeanandIthinkyoudo... right. We mutually decided she needed to go home and wash her hair and it was totally mutual.
Sometimes I cry when no one's around.
(whoa, totally give away small-town origins when you reference anything to where you can see a certain type of animal... BID)
Friday, August 19, 2005
Yeah, I said it.
You KNOW you've been a virgin too long when you talk to a beautiful woman and skip being horny and go straight to "pissed off."
If you don't know how I feel, then you're either under 24, or not a virgin, or I'm wondering why a Eunich would be on my webspace.
For the last eight or nine months I feel I've been a frayed rubber ball made from the stretched rubber-bands of used out and overworn emotional muscles that so form a man. I've had relationship after relationship, both platonic and others with the potential for more, sail into and promptly through the harbor of my influence without so much waggled hand or turned head. It's been a while since I've been able to care enough to care.
I'm not asking for sympathy.
Not asking for pity.
Not looking for attention.
Its just that I don't have the emotional currency to spend on a girl right now in my life. When talking to my recently-married friend Jordan about what it's like to be newly-wed, he admitted that at times, he finds himself a little weirded out and wondering "ok, don't you need to go home? Aren't your parents going to get pissed off if you're here past your curfew?" This ejaculation of inner thoughts put a look on my face somewhere between smelling poo in my office and a friend telling me a story of how he saw a girl throw up on her tray at lunch and ate anyway. I know my emotional stamina is barely enough to sustain a run across the court much less the 12-round bout that can be a day with even the sweetest, most sublime peach of a lass.
And yet, there's this knowlege that someday, I am going to want a woman in my life. I mean, one day, I really do want to meet a woman whom I could serve and support. Someone to argue with over who's going to take little Neil Jr and Neilia to their respective baseball and ballet classes. (Not that I'd have a problem with the reversal of their classes... I'm told ballet is quite a test of one's man-hood... no really.)
I know this is a need I'm going to have. And thinking about it is like thinking about a huge bill that I'm going to pay someday in the future. My mind-set is "hell, start paying that bad-boy down right away, son!" So one can see my angst.
So I was talking to a friend of mine tonight and I realized this is what I want. I want to meet a girl. A great girl. Preferably a semi-confirmed single girl who is currently focused on her career. One that I could call every 3 or 4 days. No more. -And by "call" I mean like 5 minutes to an hour conversations. Tops. And no text-message conversations. Text messages should be one-and-done in my opinion. Any more than that, pick up the damn phone and call.
Maybe I could see her every couple or few weeks: Movie and/or Coffee (or a beer/drink with an umbrella - guess). Nothing more domestic than that for the first couple months. Maybe, eventually, she could meet a friend or two or I'll cook her dinner at my house after a couple months. No kissing for a month or two. Seriously. That just makes you want to be a dumbass and see her more often.
Talk only. This damn way we'll be forced to actually, I don't know, um, get to know each other?
I just want to go slow. And by slow I mean, not fast. If she asks me to meet a family member in that first few months, they'd better have cancer or some darn entertaining magic tricks (at least be double-jointed? Pls Advise).
I don't know how to say it. But Baylor does weird things to you. I'm only just now realizing how it grips you -holds you. Only at Baylor could you eavesdrop on two girls talking and hear about how the first date with this fella had to be the last because she "just couldn't see them getting married." I know all dates are interviews, but damn.
Now that Graduate school has shoved me towards the periphery of the Baylor bubble I'm able to enjoy the view from my window seat and see how the rest of the world lives. Its not a window seat. Its the blowhole from which I am able to recieve some much-needed air. One of the things about living in the belly of the beast is that most of the time its too dark to get a good look at one's reflection. We forget this sometimes.
Its around this part of a blog that I usually try to offer some catharsis, a road to the salvation for which I so dearly pray. I am sorry, but don't know if this time I can offer such satisfaction. I don't expect to be "over" these feelings anytime so soon. This next year is going to be one of planning for the next leg of my grand voyage through life. Will I stay at Baylor? 50% and falling. Will I finally go "out east" as I've been promising myself for ever so long? Or will God follow precedent and lead me some other crazy place for reasons completely beyond my comprehension? Who's to know? Well me, eventually.
Until the time when what is to be known is being known, I guess I'll just sip my beer, smile and nod the occasional angry nod. Freaking virginity.
If you don't know how I feel, then you're either under 24, or not a virgin, or I'm wondering why a Eunich would be on my webspace.
For the last eight or nine months I feel I've been a frayed rubber ball made from the stretched rubber-bands of used out and overworn emotional muscles that so form a man. I've had relationship after relationship, both platonic and others with the potential for more, sail into and promptly through the harbor of my influence without so much waggled hand or turned head. It's been a while since I've been able to care enough to care.
I'm not asking for sympathy.
Not asking for pity.
Not looking for attention.
Its just that I don't have the emotional currency to spend on a girl right now in my life. When talking to my recently-married friend Jordan about what it's like to be newly-wed, he admitted that at times, he finds himself a little weirded out and wondering "ok, don't you need to go home? Aren't your parents going to get pissed off if you're here past your curfew?" This ejaculation of inner thoughts put a look on my face somewhere between smelling poo in my office and a friend telling me a story of how he saw a girl throw up on her tray at lunch and ate anyway. I know my emotional stamina is barely enough to sustain a run across the court much less the 12-round bout that can be a day with even the sweetest, most sublime peach of a lass.
And yet, there's this knowlege that someday, I am going to want a woman in my life. I mean, one day, I really do want to meet a woman whom I could serve and support. Someone to argue with over who's going to take little Neil Jr and Neilia to their respective baseball and ballet classes. (Not that I'd have a problem with the reversal of their classes... I'm told ballet is quite a test of one's man-hood... no really.)
I know this is a need I'm going to have. And thinking about it is like thinking about a huge bill that I'm going to pay someday in the future. My mind-set is "hell, start paying that bad-boy down right away, son!" So one can see my angst.
So I was talking to a friend of mine tonight and I realized this is what I want. I want to meet a girl. A great girl. Preferably a semi-confirmed single girl who is currently focused on her career. One that I could call every 3 or 4 days. No more. -And by "call" I mean like 5 minutes to an hour conversations. Tops. And no text-message conversations. Text messages should be one-and-done in my opinion. Any more than that, pick up the damn phone and call.
Maybe I could see her every couple or few weeks: Movie and/or Coffee (or a beer/drink with an umbrella - guess). Nothing more domestic than that for the first couple months. Maybe, eventually, she could meet a friend or two or I'll cook her dinner at my house after a couple months. No kissing for a month or two. Seriously. That just makes you want to be a dumbass and see her more often.
Talk only. This damn way we'll be forced to actually, I don't know, um, get to know each other?
I just want to go slow. And by slow I mean, not fast. If she asks me to meet a family member in that first few months, they'd better have cancer or some darn entertaining magic tricks (at least be double-jointed? Pls Advise).
I don't know how to say it. But Baylor does weird things to you. I'm only just now realizing how it grips you -holds you. Only at Baylor could you eavesdrop on two girls talking and hear about how the first date with this fella had to be the last because she "just couldn't see them getting married." I know all dates are interviews, but damn.
Now that Graduate school has shoved me towards the periphery of the Baylor bubble I'm able to enjoy the view from my window seat and see how the rest of the world lives. Its not a window seat. Its the blowhole from which I am able to recieve some much-needed air. One of the things about living in the belly of the beast is that most of the time its too dark to get a good look at one's reflection. We forget this sometimes.
Its around this part of a blog that I usually try to offer some catharsis, a road to the salvation for which I so dearly pray. I am sorry, but don't know if this time I can offer such satisfaction. I don't expect to be "over" these feelings anytime so soon. This next year is going to be one of planning for the next leg of my grand voyage through life. Will I stay at Baylor? 50% and falling. Will I finally go "out east" as I've been promising myself for ever so long? Or will God follow precedent and lead me some other crazy place for reasons completely beyond my comprehension? Who's to know? Well me, eventually.
Until the time when what is to be known is being known, I guess I'll just sip my beer, smile and nod the occasional angry nod. Freaking virginity.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
They call me "Che" Golemo...
You scored as Socialist. <'Imunimaginative's Deviantart Page'>
What Political Party Do Your Beliefs Put You In? created with QuizFarm.com |
Saturday, March 12, 2005
The Bliss of Ignorance...
A woman rushes through her front door, sweat brimming upon her forhead, knuckles still white from the speeding commute from her office. She zips about the room, connecting the dots of mess to mess in a hurried attempt to make her home presentable. Her head snaps up from the straightening of magazines on the coffee-table at the sound of the front door opening.
In walks a man in a suit. As he's putting his keys in the dish by the door she asks, "H-Hi honey! How are you?"
"Tired and hungry" he replies as he loosens his tie and takes off his suit jacket. "What's for dinner?"
"Oh... well, um, I was super-busy at work today and I only just beat you home myself." She throws out the words as if they were paper towels about to soak up a mess she'd yet to make. "I was just going to throw in a couple of frozen dinners..."
At the word "dinner" his face steels from the annoyed frowning at the selection of feminine magazines into a bit-lip stare. "Frozen dinners?" he asks coldly. "So lets see, I get to spend 8 hours at work, plus an hour commute, because, you wanted to live close to your mother... And frosen dinners is what I get to come home to? That's great, Diana. That's just awesome."
"I'm sorry, honey let me just go warm up the oven" she says with half a turn to the kitchen.
"No." he interrupts, "Its okay. I don't care. You know why? Because you're fucking worthless." His sneer freezes her into place. "I make all these sacrifices around here. And for what? What? What the fuck is this?" he growls, barely audibly, as he picks up a peice of trash she was unable to coral. "You can't even keep a clean fucking house?"
He throws the offense at her feet.
"I'm sorry, honey. I didn't see-" her words are cut off by his hand at her neck pushing her back into the wall. Her heels totter as they try, desperately, to keep from getting lost in the backpedaling.
"Diana" he coo's, "what did I tell you about talking back? Hmm? DON'T. TALK. BACK-TO-ME!" he screams, finally, as he hits his fist into the wall, inches from her head. "I am the man, of this house. -And I deserve respect. And I will get respect if I have to BEAT-IT. OUTTA-YOU!" he finally screams, his nose nearly touching hers, punctuating the last phrases with two more punches to the dry-wall by her ear.
"I'm sorry, baby, you know I respect y-" her last words are cut short by his knuckle to her jaw. She crumples to the floor, sobbing, hair sheilding her eyes from his horror-struck expression.
Tears begin to well in his eyes as he falls to his knees. "I'm so sorry baby! I'm so sorry. Don't cry."
Her shoulder recoils from the touch of his outstretched hand.
"You know I love you, baby. I love you so much." he says, voice cracking behind the weight of guilty tears. "You just... you just make me so crazy sometimes. Please don't cry."
Her shoulders continue to shake, like a car on its last ounce of gas.
"STOP crying." He suddenly says, devoid of emotion. An instant later he rises and pushes her away from him.
"Fuck it. Clean this shit up and make me a real fucking dinner." The door slams behind him. Her shoulders continue to shake.
Slowly, her hand reaches out. And begins to pick up the trash.
The previous story, was written by myself and based upon a loose script for something Baylor University puts on, called: "The Tunnel of Oppression." This program, made up of a circuit of vignets in different rooms, each one designed to illustrate a different form of oppression -from racial, to sexual, to domestic-, is unlike any experience I've ever encountered.
Last year, I was asked to fill in for an actor in this very skit. I'll spare you the details, but I had trouble doing it. Litterally. I had acted before, but I had never acted like this. Never screamed in a woman's face. Never punched a wall by a woman's head. Never hit a woman. And each of these "never's" were taken from me in turn. And again. And again. And again.
But let me tell you the ugly truth. I was good at it. I was very good at it.
We all have thoughts. Malicious, dark, devient thoughts. We've all held a knife and wanted, if only for an instant, to stab the cutting board. We've all held a razor and wondered how hard we could push. But these are thoughts we beat down as soon as they arise, like the gopher game at Chuckie Cheese's. But what is it like to not only, hold ourselves back from hitting these gophers down, but inviting them up, examining their features and feeling their curves and grooves?
I know it sounds cliche' but for an instant, I became that man. And it hurt me to know that "that man" wasn't so hard to find. It was sort of like singing obnoxiously in a room you thought was sound-proof only to walk out and hear someone else doing the same thing. The walls are much thinner than we'd supposed.
I realized quickly, that I am no better than any wife-beater, or abusive uncle. We are both fallen, and for different circumstances... well, that's a gopher I choose to beat down.
When I wrote the part of the script, where the man starts to cry and apologizes to his wife, I could hardly believe what I was thinking. And the first time I said it, I nearly vomitted all over the poor actress receiving my abuse. I guess that made me feel a little better. But in the end, it was still me, looking straight into the face of that of which I am capable, the malice and anger in me.
In the end, I told my fellow actors how, yes, it was hard. But that we had a real chance to do some amazing good. And if the better we were, the more likely we were to touch people, to wake them up, to rob them of the indifference allowed them by their ignorance. And that if we put ourselves, our words, our minds into God's hands, and begged him to make the words we speak to be the words he would have of us, he would heal our hearts and make us stronger at the break.
And while I may have been sort of talking out of my ass, perhaps I've since realized that perhaps God can sometimes use my ass to say some pretty smart things. (Yes, Dad. I just said that God sometimes speaks out of my ass.)
I've spent some time with my dark side. And while I doubt I'll ever be comfortable with that "Neil", maybe I'll at least be able to remember not to sing too loud, because the walls can be thinner that we think.
In walks a man in a suit. As he's putting his keys in the dish by the door she asks, "H-Hi honey! How are you?"
"Tired and hungry" he replies as he loosens his tie and takes off his suit jacket. "What's for dinner?"
"Oh... well, um, I was super-busy at work today and I only just beat you home myself." She throws out the words as if they were paper towels about to soak up a mess she'd yet to make. "I was just going to throw in a couple of frozen dinners..."
At the word "dinner" his face steels from the annoyed frowning at the selection of feminine magazines into a bit-lip stare. "Frozen dinners?" he asks coldly. "So lets see, I get to spend 8 hours at work, plus an hour commute, because, you wanted to live close to your mother... And frosen dinners is what I get to come home to? That's great, Diana. That's just awesome."
"I'm sorry, honey let me just go warm up the oven" she says with half a turn to the kitchen.
"No." he interrupts, "Its okay. I don't care. You know why? Because you're fucking worthless." His sneer freezes her into place. "I make all these sacrifices around here. And for what? What? What the fuck is this?" he growls, barely audibly, as he picks up a peice of trash she was unable to coral. "You can't even keep a clean fucking house?"
He throws the offense at her feet.
"I'm sorry, honey. I didn't see-" her words are cut off by his hand at her neck pushing her back into the wall. Her heels totter as they try, desperately, to keep from getting lost in the backpedaling.
"Diana" he coo's, "what did I tell you about talking back? Hmm? DON'T. TALK. BACK-TO-ME!" he screams, finally, as he hits his fist into the wall, inches from her head. "I am the man, of this house. -And I deserve respect. And I will get respect if I have to BEAT-IT. OUTTA-YOU!" he finally screams, his nose nearly touching hers, punctuating the last phrases with two more punches to the dry-wall by her ear.
"I'm sorry, baby, you know I respect y-" her last words are cut short by his knuckle to her jaw. She crumples to the floor, sobbing, hair sheilding her eyes from his horror-struck expression.
Tears begin to well in his eyes as he falls to his knees. "I'm so sorry baby! I'm so sorry. Don't cry."
Her shoulder recoils from the touch of his outstretched hand.
"You know I love you, baby. I love you so much." he says, voice cracking behind the weight of guilty tears. "You just... you just make me so crazy sometimes. Please don't cry."
Her shoulders continue to shake, like a car on its last ounce of gas.
"STOP crying." He suddenly says, devoid of emotion. An instant later he rises and pushes her away from him.
"Fuck it. Clean this shit up and make me a real fucking dinner." The door slams behind him. Her shoulders continue to shake.
Slowly, her hand reaches out. And begins to pick up the trash.
The previous story, was written by myself and based upon a loose script for something Baylor University puts on, called: "The Tunnel of Oppression." This program, made up of a circuit of vignets in different rooms, each one designed to illustrate a different form of oppression -from racial, to sexual, to domestic-, is unlike any experience I've ever encountered.
Last year, I was asked to fill in for an actor in this very skit. I'll spare you the details, but I had trouble doing it. Litterally. I had acted before, but I had never acted like this. Never screamed in a woman's face. Never punched a wall by a woman's head. Never hit a woman. And each of these "never's" were taken from me in turn. And again. And again. And again.
But let me tell you the ugly truth. I was good at it. I was very good at it.
We all have thoughts. Malicious, dark, devient thoughts. We've all held a knife and wanted, if only for an instant, to stab the cutting board. We've all held a razor and wondered how hard we could push. But these are thoughts we beat down as soon as they arise, like the gopher game at Chuckie Cheese's. But what is it like to not only, hold ourselves back from hitting these gophers down, but inviting them up, examining their features and feeling their curves and grooves?
I know it sounds cliche' but for an instant, I became that man. And it hurt me to know that "that man" wasn't so hard to find. It was sort of like singing obnoxiously in a room you thought was sound-proof only to walk out and hear someone else doing the same thing. The walls are much thinner than we'd supposed.
I realized quickly, that I am no better than any wife-beater, or abusive uncle. We are both fallen, and for different circumstances... well, that's a gopher I choose to beat down.
When I wrote the part of the script, where the man starts to cry and apologizes to his wife, I could hardly believe what I was thinking. And the first time I said it, I nearly vomitted all over the poor actress receiving my abuse. I guess that made me feel a little better. But in the end, it was still me, looking straight into the face of that of which I am capable, the malice and anger in me.
In the end, I told my fellow actors how, yes, it was hard. But that we had a real chance to do some amazing good. And if the better we were, the more likely we were to touch people, to wake them up, to rob them of the indifference allowed them by their ignorance. And that if we put ourselves, our words, our minds into God's hands, and begged him to make the words we speak to be the words he would have of us, he would heal our hearts and make us stronger at the break.
And while I may have been sort of talking out of my ass, perhaps I've since realized that perhaps God can sometimes use my ass to say some pretty smart things. (Yes, Dad. I just said that God sometimes speaks out of my ass.)
I've spent some time with my dark side. And while I doubt I'll ever be comfortable with that "Neil", maybe I'll at least be able to remember not to sing too loud, because the walls can be thinner that we think.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
You down wit this, sucka?
This is flippin' awesome. Check out this site: www.gizoogle.com.
To see this site "Gizoogled", click this: http://sites.gizoogle.com/?url=http://www.neilgolemo.blogspot.com/
Holla at ya boy!
To see this site "Gizoogled", click this: http://sites.gizoogle.com/?url=http://www.neilgolemo.blogspot.com/
Holla at ya boy!
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
This concept of "Wuv" confuses and infuriates me!
I love the Conversational Candy Hearts. Yeah yeah yeah, the trite-ness of having sweet nothings and pop-phrases compiled into single letter abbreviations and mass-printed "catty-wompously" onto thousands of heart-shaped candies is intriguing to say the least. The possibilities for pondrance are endless! However, my love has more to do with their taste. I don't know what it is, but I love the taste. They're probably the coolest thing about Valentine's day.
They're kind of like Cadburry Egg's, Mallow Pumpkins and Candy Canes. They're sort of a seasonal delight. If they were around for the whole year, people would probably think they suck. But, since you can only get them for 2 or 3 months out of 12, they're a delicacy.
On Monday, I went over to Danielle's after class for a V-tine's day party/ Chocolate Fest. I sampled her wares: chocolate-dipped oranges and strawberries, chocolate bars, kisses, and, of course, chili. Delicious, Danielle, tasty to say the least. However, when I reached into the dish with the conversation hearts, eager for this year's first taste of that bonemeal-and-earwig honey -chalky goodness, I found that my lips, instead of curling into a smile, had squeezed and contracted into a pucker. These weren't sweet?! but Sour! I felt so let-down.
It was 3 o'clock on Monday before I realized what day it was. I saw people in their S.A.D. (singles awareness day) shirts, and heard friends complaining about their bad luck at being single upon a day like today. I heard people complaining about the "commercialism" of it all. How V-tine's day was invented by the Greeting Card companies. Perhaps.
But upon reflection, I'll give you my day.
I slept late. Did a little homework. Had a great class. Candy and friends at Danielle's. Then I went over and had my weekly face-time with two of the biggest Bad-Asses I know. Jack Bauer and Myles Werntz. I came slightly hungry and ready for this season's episode of of 24, and I left satiated, pumped for next week and with a plane ticket to El Paso in May. Southwest thanks you, Myles Werntz.
On the way home from the house of the big brother I never had, I began to wonder about what a nice, pleasant and quaint day I had just enjoyed. But as a single Tiger on the prowl, how could this be? Its game-day and I'm riding the pine.
I loved Valentine's day growing up because it was a chance to give everyone a Valentine; a chance to let everyone in my homeroom, as I dropped my ALF Valentines into the shoebox on the edge of their desk, know that I thought they made my life, time better spent. My dad takes flowers to the girls in his office. My mom sends me a little care package. I call my sisters and tell them I love them. How can such a day be bad?
Myles fried me some eggplant. I am loved.
But as for the commercialism? There is a bit. I, myself, have always liked Valentine's Day better when I was single. I hate being expected to do something simply because of a day. You can't force romance. And who wants a love like that anyway?
On my way home from Myles's, I drove in front of the Waco Tribune building just in time to see the night watch-man do his rounds outside. I saw him ambling along, awkwardly, his poor belt straining into his waist like a rubber-band on a water-balloon. "He's not very romantic", I thought. But he's like me, maybe. That's the kind of Love I want.
Who wants a Love like a muscle-ly armed Arnold Swartzenegger Green Beret protecting your heart? Arnold Swartzenegger is too high maintenance and not at all realistic. I want to love like an overweight security guard. Perhaps a little unwieldy and top-heavy at times. Maybe I'll spill a little spaghetti sauce on the front of my uniform and won't notice it. But I get the job done and you know I need the job as much as the job needs me. A little unromantic? At times. But, among all things, its true.
Like the candy hearts, its not always so much a matter of quality, as it is of taste.
PS, a special mix CD to the first person who can give me where I stole the title of this post from and their address!
They're kind of like Cadburry Egg's, Mallow Pumpkins and Candy Canes. They're sort of a seasonal delight. If they were around for the whole year, people would probably think they suck. But, since you can only get them for 2 or 3 months out of 12, they're a delicacy.
On Monday, I went over to Danielle's after class for a V-tine's day party/ Chocolate Fest. I sampled her wares: chocolate-dipped oranges and strawberries, chocolate bars, kisses, and, of course, chili. Delicious, Danielle, tasty to say the least. However, when I reached into the dish with the conversation hearts, eager for this year's first taste of that bonemeal-and-earwig honey -chalky goodness, I found that my lips, instead of curling into a smile, had squeezed and contracted into a pucker. These weren't sweet?! but Sour! I felt so let-down.
It was 3 o'clock on Monday before I realized what day it was. I saw people in their S.A.D. (singles awareness day) shirts, and heard friends complaining about their bad luck at being single upon a day like today. I heard people complaining about the "commercialism" of it all. How V-tine's day was invented by the Greeting Card companies. Perhaps.
But upon reflection, I'll give you my day.
I slept late. Did a little homework. Had a great class. Candy and friends at Danielle's. Then I went over and had my weekly face-time with two of the biggest Bad-Asses I know. Jack Bauer and Myles Werntz. I came slightly hungry and ready for this season's episode of of 24, and I left satiated, pumped for next week and with a plane ticket to El Paso in May. Southwest thanks you, Myles Werntz.
On the way home from the house of the big brother I never had, I began to wonder about what a nice, pleasant and quaint day I had just enjoyed. But as a single Tiger on the prowl, how could this be? Its game-day and I'm riding the pine.
I loved Valentine's day growing up because it was a chance to give everyone a Valentine; a chance to let everyone in my homeroom, as I dropped my ALF Valentines into the shoebox on the edge of their desk, know that I thought they made my life, time better spent. My dad takes flowers to the girls in his office. My mom sends me a little care package. I call my sisters and tell them I love them. How can such a day be bad?
Myles fried me some eggplant. I am loved.
But as for the commercialism? There is a bit. I, myself, have always liked Valentine's Day better when I was single. I hate being expected to do something simply because of a day. You can't force romance. And who wants a love like that anyway?
On my way home from Myles's, I drove in front of the Waco Tribune building just in time to see the night watch-man do his rounds outside. I saw him ambling along, awkwardly, his poor belt straining into his waist like a rubber-band on a water-balloon. "He's not very romantic", I thought. But he's like me, maybe. That's the kind of Love I want.
Who wants a Love like a muscle-ly armed Arnold Swartzenegger Green Beret protecting your heart? Arnold Swartzenegger is too high maintenance and not at all realistic. I want to love like an overweight security guard. Perhaps a little unwieldy and top-heavy at times. Maybe I'll spill a little spaghetti sauce on the front of my uniform and won't notice it. But I get the job done and you know I need the job as much as the job needs me. A little unromantic? At times. But, among all things, its true.
Like the candy hearts, its not always so much a matter of quality, as it is of taste.
PS, a special mix CD to the first person who can give me where I stole the title of this post from and their address!
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Count your blessings, instead of sheep
Sometimes I laugh for no reason. Sometimes I'm in a library. Sometimes I'm by myself. Sometimes I'm walking. Sometimes I'm eating. The laughs, they come. They well up within me like so much gas when you're sitting next to a pretty girl. Can't fight it bro, it'll only make you sick. And no giggle or silent nod mind you, but my full, throaty, devil-sounding laugh. I don't know why. But for the longest time, such has always been the case.
It was my inclination to write about all of the possibilities that could be, to lead you, the reader, down a primrose path of the potential this and that. But I know why it is.
I am blessed. I say this with a resigned smile. I'm not jumping up and down, nor am I broken down and bent in self-flagellation. I say this with as much confidence as I have that I'll draw my next breath. I am blessed.
I think I've lived a charmed life. Born to amazing, loving, God-fearing and incredibly intelligent parents who literally wanted nothing more in the world than to have a baby boy, I was an answer to their prayers. They tried for years after having a miscarriage, and I, quite literally, received the early nomer of their "miracle child." I was given all I could hold. Then I was given more.
I have an older sister, a younger brother (and best friend/young man who will always be my #1 fan) and a little sister, who amongst everyone else in the family, is probably built the most like me. An entertainer, wise-ass and my own personal cuddle-buddy and foot-warmer.
If that wasn't enough, The Lord felt like he had to let the WORLD know I was blessed by delivering me from Cancer when the chances were not mine. Apparently the Sky-writers were sick that day.
Sometimes I laugh for no apparent reason. No joke in my head. No deja-vu of a Simpson's episode. Sometimes, I dance too.
I have all I need. I've known the sweet torture of the pain that comes with a chemo-infusion. There is a scent of a particular antiseptic cleaning product, that to this day, makes me nauseous. But those only served as the stand-up base-line to the Coltrain trumpet of my jubilation tip-toeing and splish-splashing its way through my life. Without the base, I wouldn't see the trumpet in my mind... I'd only hear it. Base, trumpet, cow bell: blessings all.
I've known of love with the capital "L." And, I guess I've also known what its like to lose it with a capital "L."
But to be honest, the hurt that comes with not talking to Erin is nothing compared to the warmth I get when I remember the sensation on the ticklish part of my heart when I heard her voice. I knew what it was like to smell her on my clothes. To hold the most beautiful woman I've ever seen before or since, and kiss her in the middle of an Airport, for any Texan to see.
Even the thought of never talking to her dissipates as smoke from a candle at the thought of the woman she is becoming, the good she'll do, the people she will touch. I do not worry about Erin. Few things are so strong as her.
Sometimes I laugh for no apparent reason. I cannot escape my joy. A smile cannot leave my chubby cheeks. I cannot walk in front of a mirror without seeing the 11 inch scar upon my abdomen -the flesh healed- and knowing of the favor I enjoy.
At one time I could have told you a story about the pressure of this knowledge. But really I was selling you yesterday's paper while pointing at the date. I knew better. I am Jonah. If I screw up too bad, there's always the whale.
Its 6:20 AM. And I'm laughing for no apparent reason. But appearances are tricky things.
It was my inclination to write about all of the possibilities that could be, to lead you, the reader, down a primrose path of the potential this and that. But I know why it is.
I am blessed. I say this with a resigned smile. I'm not jumping up and down, nor am I broken down and bent in self-flagellation. I say this with as much confidence as I have that I'll draw my next breath. I am blessed.
I think I've lived a charmed life. Born to amazing, loving, God-fearing and incredibly intelligent parents who literally wanted nothing more in the world than to have a baby boy, I was an answer to their prayers. They tried for years after having a miscarriage, and I, quite literally, received the early nomer of their "miracle child." I was given all I could hold. Then I was given more.
I have an older sister, a younger brother (and best friend/young man who will always be my #1 fan) and a little sister, who amongst everyone else in the family, is probably built the most like me. An entertainer, wise-ass and my own personal cuddle-buddy and foot-warmer.
If that wasn't enough, The Lord felt like he had to let the WORLD know I was blessed by delivering me from Cancer when the chances were not mine. Apparently the Sky-writers were sick that day.
Sometimes I laugh for no apparent reason. No joke in my head. No deja-vu of a Simpson's episode. Sometimes, I dance too.
I have all I need. I've known the sweet torture of the pain that comes with a chemo-infusion. There is a scent of a particular antiseptic cleaning product, that to this day, makes me nauseous. But those only served as the stand-up base-line to the Coltrain trumpet of my jubilation tip-toeing and splish-splashing its way through my life. Without the base, I wouldn't see the trumpet in my mind... I'd only hear it. Base, trumpet, cow bell: blessings all.
I've known of love with the capital "L." And, I guess I've also known what its like to lose it with a capital "L."
But to be honest, the hurt that comes with not talking to Erin is nothing compared to the warmth I get when I remember the sensation on the ticklish part of my heart when I heard her voice. I knew what it was like to smell her on my clothes. To hold the most beautiful woman I've ever seen before or since, and kiss her in the middle of an Airport, for any Texan to see.
Even the thought of never talking to her dissipates as smoke from a candle at the thought of the woman she is becoming, the good she'll do, the people she will touch. I do not worry about Erin. Few things are so strong as her.
Sometimes I laugh for no apparent reason. I cannot escape my joy. A smile cannot leave my chubby cheeks. I cannot walk in front of a mirror without seeing the 11 inch scar upon my abdomen -the flesh healed- and knowing of the favor I enjoy.
At one time I could have told you a story about the pressure of this knowledge. But really I was selling you yesterday's paper while pointing at the date. I knew better. I am Jonah. If I screw up too bad, there's always the whale.
Its 6:20 AM. And I'm laughing for no apparent reason. But appearances are tricky things.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
The boy in a bubble.
The people in Times Square move along so mechanically. One could tell the tourists apart from everyone else by how they gawked at the millions of bright lights, the huge Coke bottles and the monstrous Cup of Noodles sign. And they were right to do so, these are amazing things, Back to the Future II-esque things. But even they, with their cameras and "don't mess with Texas" shirts quickly learned to shuffle along, fall in line. If you gawk too loudly at a limited-edition Superman #23 with Wonder Woman, you're a nerd. If you squeal because you found that "I Love Lucy" purse that will perfectly match those checkered heels you bought because they reminded you of the vitaminamin episode, for some reason, People will think you're odd.
New York is a beautiful city, even in the winter. And yes, at 12 degrees Fahrenheit, a bit chilly. But I never felt cold until I saw the ten-thousand-plus people on one square block each acting as if he or she were the only ones there.
I once read that communication is the key to life. Not food. Not water. Not Chicago Cubs tickets. Communication.
Without communication, we are merely boys and girls in bubbles, trapped inside our own hairy, or not so hairy, bubbles; shackled within the fortresses of our skulls. So, if one was to think about it, he or she would realize that we, to other people, are only what we communicate, or even, as the case may be, what we DON'T communicate.
So back to Times Square. How is it that people can just turn themselves off? Standing there, watching people move along like blood cells through capillaries, I began to wonder about the people walking by me here and there. That girl has real feelings, needs and wants. That man needs love and acceptance every bit as much as I do. I wonder if one of these people is related to a Circus person. Do any of them have a third nipple? That one! Inny or Outy? So many secrets to be known if only we could take the time to get to know them. But instead, we are doomed to walk along, eyes straight ahead.
If you smile at anyone you're either A) a child molester/homicidal rapist, B) on Ex. or some happy little derivative, or 3) recently escaped from a mental institution.
Now, I'm not talking about making best friends with every person on the subway. But why is it that we turn our blinders on to the beauty that is in every person's soul? Thanks to Christ, our bubbles are no longer dark, like bowling balls, but clear and bursting with color, like marbles! I don't understand how people can have the blank "I don't get the joke" look as their default faces when we've been told that the Kingdom of God is at hand.
We talk about showing kindness to our fellow man. But how many times do we fail to return the smile of the fella next to us? Once again, I'm not saying we should all take to the streets wearing "Jesus Loves You" sandwich boards and handfulls of "Billy Graham doe too" balloons, unless you wanna. But all I'm suggesting is that we just be mindful of what's around us. Let us not live our lives only behind doors. If we spend a little time outside of our heads, gawking at the beauty of our neighbor's soul as we would at a '05 Mustange or Minolo Blanik's, letting the world fill our senses, I think you'll be surprised that it can taste good and top off the tank.
If every choice is "Love" or "other"... Choose Love.
New York is a beautiful city, even in the winter. And yes, at 12 degrees Fahrenheit, a bit chilly. But I never felt cold until I saw the ten-thousand-plus people on one square block each acting as if he or she were the only ones there.
I once read that communication is the key to life. Not food. Not water. Not Chicago Cubs tickets. Communication.
Without communication, we are merely boys and girls in bubbles, trapped inside our own hairy, or not so hairy, bubbles; shackled within the fortresses of our skulls. So, if one was to think about it, he or she would realize that we, to other people, are only what we communicate, or even, as the case may be, what we DON'T communicate.
So back to Times Square. How is it that people can just turn themselves off? Standing there, watching people move along like blood cells through capillaries, I began to wonder about the people walking by me here and there. That girl has real feelings, needs and wants. That man needs love and acceptance every bit as much as I do. I wonder if one of these people is related to a Circus person. Do any of them have a third nipple? That one! Inny or Outy? So many secrets to be known if only we could take the time to get to know them. But instead, we are doomed to walk along, eyes straight ahead.
If you smile at anyone you're either A) a child molester/homicidal rapist, B) on Ex. or some happy little derivative, or 3) recently escaped from a mental institution.
Now, I'm not talking about making best friends with every person on the subway. But why is it that we turn our blinders on to the beauty that is in every person's soul? Thanks to Christ, our bubbles are no longer dark, like bowling balls, but clear and bursting with color, like marbles! I don't understand how people can have the blank "I don't get the joke" look as their default faces when we've been told that the Kingdom of God is at hand.
We talk about showing kindness to our fellow man. But how many times do we fail to return the smile of the fella next to us? Once again, I'm not saying we should all take to the streets wearing "Jesus Loves You" sandwich boards and handfulls of "Billy Graham doe too" balloons, unless you wanna. But all I'm suggesting is that we just be mindful of what's around us. Let us not live our lives only behind doors. If we spend a little time outside of our heads, gawking at the beauty of our neighbor's soul as we would at a '05 Mustange or Minolo Blanik's, letting the world fill our senses, I think you'll be surprised that it can taste good and top off the tank.
If every choice is "Love" or "other"... Choose Love.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Takin a bite of the big apple (Part 1)
Me: "How is it that you can lead 40 men with guns through a forest at night using nothing more than a magnetized needle and a palm-sized map, but we can't go three blocks in this damn city without getting lost?"
Bennie: "I don't know... but a compass would help..."
I went to New York City for the first time this weekend. It was my brother's Yearling Winter Weekend at West Point, a weekend where the majestic United States Military Academy puts on her best for her Yearlings (sophomores) and they, in turn, spend as much of the weekend as possible away from her wanton grasp and escape to the City.
I flew into Newark, took a bus to Grand Central Station where I met Ben, wearing his big, brown, BCG's (Birth Control Glasses, because supposedly no Army man has ever managed to get laid while wearing them). We embrace, I laugh at him, and we figure out that we want to go drop off our stuff at our hotel room. We get on the Subway, take it North-ish and start to walk to wrong way. Eventually, we figure this out and turn back to find our hotel.
Hotel 31 turned out to be a gamble that paid off big time. I made the reservations and paid for it all online through Expedia (dot coooooooooom!). We strode on in and announced "reservation for Golemo, G-o-l-e-m-o." A nice looking man in a red suit and greased mafia-style hair started typing away at the computer. I instantly start to make fun of my little brother.
I grabbed his glasses, put them on and engaged in some tom-foolery.
"Hey, my name is Ben." I said with a mumble. "I listen to punk music and decided to the most punk thing I could think of and signed up to kill people at West Point. Also, I have no sense of equity, so if you flick me in the ear, I'll respond by making sure you'll never have children."
Nice looking, red-suited, greased hair guy started to laugh and then looked at us and said, with a look of surprise, "you're funny."
"Thanks for noticing."
So we got our cards and walked up to our room. It was a shared bathroom, no frills type of place and totally awesome. The room was barely twice the size of the bed. There was a sink and a dresser with a 13-inch TV on it.
We both immediately started to flop on the bed, Grandma's house-style. Then Ben turned on the TV to the Spanish Channel and we started to watch one of their prime-time soap operas. I started to make up my own dubbing for it.
A man dressed all in black with a ski mask was talking to a volumptuous, dark-haired, beauty with his hands open before him.
"Jes, I know you are tired of hearing this Lucinda, but you must, by now, have learned how to make a proper bag of the popping-corn!"
"Oh, Rodrigo!" She sighs as she backs away and puts her hand to her forehead. "You know I hate the popping-corn! Ever since father -oh I cannot describe it, -I dare not! For it is too painful!"
"Jes, Lucinda, I know all about your pa-pa. He died during the lawn-mower accident! But it was not your fault! And more importantly, what does this have to do wit the popping-corn!?!?!? Come, let us make sweet love and cut to loud commercial a moment before you are completely disrobed."
"No!"
"Jes!"
"No!"
"Jes!"
"Salright!"
Commercial!
Yes, we're funny guys.
Then I realized I was hungry. So we called my buddy Jordan's (Blog write Boof) wonderful fiance', LaRae who just happened to be living in Manhattan, working for the man and preparing a home for Jordan and herself for their future. Sigh. Anyways, she calls us and gives us directions. We see a huge comic-book shop and, of course, get distracted, turned-around, and lost. But to be honest, with Ben, such is always fun.
Eventually, after walking half a mile in the wrong direction in really cold weather, we show up, numb and rosey-cheeked at the LaRae's. She took us to a place called Playwright's. Excellent food. No joke. De-Lish!
Then, LaRae showed us around Times Square. We saw tons of stuff! It was awesome and inspired a post I'll publish soon. (It's sort of deep) But here was the most the thing that was awesomest. The Dook. Thor's Hammer. Odin's Raven. Whatever! We fricken met SPIDERMAN! The Webslinger himself! Okay, it was actually a semi-homeless man who made the costume himself and was charging people $7 a picture. But I'll tell ya. It was the best $7 Mama Golemo's baby boy ever spent!
I immediately called a friend to let them know what they were missing.
"Dude. Spiderman. Times Square. Me. Bennie-hanna. Awesome!"
"Neil, are you excited?"
"Heck yes I'm excited! What the flip would YOU feel in a situation like this?"
Hang up.
I'll finish this story later. When this medication wears off. Until then, I bid you Adieu.
Bennie: "I don't know... but a compass would help..."
I went to New York City for the first time this weekend. It was my brother's Yearling Winter Weekend at West Point, a weekend where the majestic United States Military Academy puts on her best for her Yearlings (sophomores) and they, in turn, spend as much of the weekend as possible away from her wanton grasp and escape to the City.
I flew into Newark, took a bus to Grand Central Station where I met Ben, wearing his big, brown, BCG's (Birth Control Glasses, because supposedly no Army man has ever managed to get laid while wearing them). We embrace, I laugh at him, and we figure out that we want to go drop off our stuff at our hotel room. We get on the Subway, take it North-ish and start to walk to wrong way. Eventually, we figure this out and turn back to find our hotel.
Hotel 31 turned out to be a gamble that paid off big time. I made the reservations and paid for it all online through Expedia (dot coooooooooom!). We strode on in and announced "reservation for Golemo, G-o-l-e-m-o." A nice looking man in a red suit and greased mafia-style hair started typing away at the computer. I instantly start to make fun of my little brother.
I grabbed his glasses, put them on and engaged in some tom-foolery.
"Hey, my name is Ben." I said with a mumble. "I listen to punk music and decided to the most punk thing I could think of and signed up to kill people at West Point. Also, I have no sense of equity, so if you flick me in the ear, I'll respond by making sure you'll never have children."
Nice looking, red-suited, greased hair guy started to laugh and then looked at us and said, with a look of surprise, "you're funny."
"Thanks for noticing."
So we got our cards and walked up to our room. It was a shared bathroom, no frills type of place and totally awesome. The room was barely twice the size of the bed. There was a sink and a dresser with a 13-inch TV on it.
We both immediately started to flop on the bed, Grandma's house-style. Then Ben turned on the TV to the Spanish Channel and we started to watch one of their prime-time soap operas. I started to make up my own dubbing for it.
A man dressed all in black with a ski mask was talking to a volumptuous, dark-haired, beauty with his hands open before him.
"Jes, I know you are tired of hearing this Lucinda, but you must, by now, have learned how to make a proper bag of the popping-corn!"
"Oh, Rodrigo!" She sighs as she backs away and puts her hand to her forehead. "You know I hate the popping-corn! Ever since father -oh I cannot describe it, -I dare not! For it is too painful!"
"Jes, Lucinda, I know all about your pa-pa. He died during the lawn-mower accident! But it was not your fault! And more importantly, what does this have to do wit the popping-corn!?!?!? Come, let us make sweet love and cut to loud commercial a moment before you are completely disrobed."
"No!"
"Jes!"
"No!"
"Jes!"
"Salright!"
Commercial!
Yes, we're funny guys.
Then I realized I was hungry. So we called my buddy Jordan's (Blog write Boof) wonderful fiance', LaRae who just happened to be living in Manhattan, working for the man and preparing a home for Jordan and herself for their future. Sigh. Anyways, she calls us and gives us directions. We see a huge comic-book shop and, of course, get distracted, turned-around, and lost. But to be honest, with Ben, such is always fun.
Eventually, after walking half a mile in the wrong direction in really cold weather, we show up, numb and rosey-cheeked at the LaRae's. She took us to a place called Playwright's. Excellent food. No joke. De-Lish!
Then, LaRae showed us around Times Square. We saw tons of stuff! It was awesome and inspired a post I'll publish soon. (It's sort of deep) But here was the most the thing that was awesomest. The Dook. Thor's Hammer. Odin's Raven. Whatever! We fricken met SPIDERMAN! The Webslinger himself! Okay, it was actually a semi-homeless man who made the costume himself and was charging people $7 a picture. But I'll tell ya. It was the best $7 Mama Golemo's baby boy ever spent!
I immediately called a friend to let them know what they were missing.
"Dude. Spiderman. Times Square. Me. Bennie-hanna. Awesome!"
"Neil, are you excited?"
"Heck yes I'm excited! What the flip would YOU feel in a situation like this?"
Hang up.
I'll finish this story later. When this medication wears off. Until then, I bid you Adieu.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Who's going to be 6000?
If you're the 6000th person to hit this site, leave your name and address and I'll send you my "super-happy-thanks-for-dropping by-morning mix!" Just leave a comment!
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
The Plan
In Dr. Oliver's class, he gave us a doozey of an assignment right off the bat. He wanted our 10-year plan. I'll admit, I've never been much of a planner. I'm kind of a "see where the night takes us" kind of fella. But as I started to think of what I wanted for myself; sythesize all of the "what if's" and "that would be nice's" into a possibility of what my future could hold, I was shocked to see a mission I've set for myself.
I finish my Master's here at Baylor and go straight into working on a PhD. In Higher Educational Leadership at Ohio St., NYU, U of Maryland or maybe even Vanderbilt. Hopefully, I'll pay for my education at whatever school by fulfilling my professional dream of running a Residence Hall and working with Resident Assistants or Community Leaders or whatever, pouring into them and making a difference in the lives of students. My dissertation will be something along the lines of "The acculturation of Student Athletes in Higher Education." I feel very strongly about this topic. It is something that needs and deserves thought and research.
Also, by the time I leave whatever school is lucky enough to have me, I want to be published as an author of both fiction and non-fiction.
Then I'll go on to teach leadership courses in leadership while I learn what it takes to start a school of my own with my friend, Greg Hanson. I figure I'll use what contacts I've made through Horatio Alger to help me get started.
It'll be a 4-year secondary charter school for students showing high-aptitude, but more importantly, high-motivation from lower socio-economic status and backgrounds, mainly inner-city. We'll partner with a community and relocate the students from the City such as Chicago, New York or Miami to a small town outside of walking distance away, like Carthage, Ill.
I have ideas for the housing, such as having Faculty and their families live with students from a cohort to form a true residential learning community. We would live and teach in the cohort system, each cohort or peer group takes the same classes. What's more, we would be two-deep at every faculty level. Then, the faculty members would follow their cohort through all four years of their matriculation.
The school would worry less about test scores and more about the fact that we've never had a student drop out through lack of emotional or moral support. We would try to create an environment of cooperation among the students and not competition.
What's more, I'm very interested in progressive grading which is subject to inflation. That is, I am interested in de-emphasizing Letter Grades and instead pursuing the EverGreen State system of essay grades. For each class Joe or Josephine takes, in lieu of a letter, he or she will receive an essay of fitting length describing in-depth what parts of the course requirements Joe excelled at, fully grasped, and perhaps, needs further thought upon.
Also, while intramural sports or activities will be mandatory, athletics will be de-emphasized. This school's motives will stay pure. Everyone will participate in music courses of some sort.
As for how the school is funded. Obviously it'll be private and fully endowed. Greg suggested getting the money from a single donor and calling it the Oprah Winfrey Institute. Personally, I believe maybe some of my contacts might be more likely. So it could end up being the Wayne Huizenga School or Arthur C. Cioca High or perhaps even Le lycee d'Horatio Alger. I'm not picky. It doesn't even have to sound classy. (Nabisco's EZ Cheeze High?)
That's it as of right now. But I reserve the right to tweak any of these dreams as they are, in fact, mine.
I finish my Master's here at Baylor and go straight into working on a PhD. In Higher Educational Leadership at Ohio St., NYU, U of Maryland or maybe even Vanderbilt. Hopefully, I'll pay for my education at whatever school by fulfilling my professional dream of running a Residence Hall and working with Resident Assistants or Community Leaders or whatever, pouring into them and making a difference in the lives of students. My dissertation will be something along the lines of "The acculturation of Student Athletes in Higher Education." I feel very strongly about this topic. It is something that needs and deserves thought and research.
Also, by the time I leave whatever school is lucky enough to have me, I want to be published as an author of both fiction and non-fiction.
Then I'll go on to teach leadership courses in leadership while I learn what it takes to start a school of my own with my friend, Greg Hanson. I figure I'll use what contacts I've made through Horatio Alger to help me get started.
It'll be a 4-year secondary charter school for students showing high-aptitude, but more importantly, high-motivation from lower socio-economic status and backgrounds, mainly inner-city. We'll partner with a community and relocate the students from the City such as Chicago, New York or Miami to a small town outside of walking distance away, like Carthage, Ill.
I have ideas for the housing, such as having Faculty and their families live with students from a cohort to form a true residential learning community. We would live and teach in the cohort system, each cohort or peer group takes the same classes. What's more, we would be two-deep at every faculty level. Then, the faculty members would follow their cohort through all four years of their matriculation.
The school would worry less about test scores and more about the fact that we've never had a student drop out through lack of emotional or moral support. We would try to create an environment of cooperation among the students and not competition.
What's more, I'm very interested in progressive grading which is subject to inflation. That is, I am interested in de-emphasizing Letter Grades and instead pursuing the EverGreen State system of essay grades. For each class Joe or Josephine takes, in lieu of a letter, he or she will receive an essay of fitting length describing in-depth what parts of the course requirements Joe excelled at, fully grasped, and perhaps, needs further thought upon.
Also, while intramural sports or activities will be mandatory, athletics will be de-emphasized. This school's motives will stay pure. Everyone will participate in music courses of some sort.
As for how the school is funded. Obviously it'll be private and fully endowed. Greg suggested getting the money from a single donor and calling it the Oprah Winfrey Institute. Personally, I believe maybe some of my contacts might be more likely. So it could end up being the Wayne Huizenga School or Arthur C. Cioca High or perhaps even Le lycee d'Horatio Alger. I'm not picky. It doesn't even have to sound classy. (Nabisco's EZ Cheeze High?)
That's it as of right now. But I reserve the right to tweak any of these dreams as they are, in fact, mine.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
The Devil and General Mills
I'm sort of an analogy person. I love analogies. They help me, sometimes, to better understand what is happening, like the cross section page of Zoobooks magazine.
So here goes...
Right now in my life is like cereal.
I am a cereal eater who has been choosing from the variety pak his entire life. And I'm dying to settle down to one flavor. I'm sick and tired of only getting to appreciate a bowlful at a time.
Now, I thought I had my cereal -my Lucky Charms if you will. I had honestly thought I had the perfect cereal for me. But General Mills, in all of her Devilish mystery, has decided to stop production of that marshmallow and oats delicacy known as Lucky Charms and it sucks.
Yeah, perhaps General Mills will realize her mistake and start up her supply again, but something tells me waiting and hoping isn't the best use of my time. So, I'll send my letter of disappointment to the company's headquarters in Battle Creek, Michigan and know I did less than I could, but only what I should. If I wait... well I guess man cannot live on cereal alone anyway.
So its back to the variety pak that I dislike so much. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure I'm even in the mood for cereal. (Not that I'm in the mood for sausage.... Okay, bad joke)
But here's the thing. Its morning and I'm freaking starving.
My wonderful friend Stacey (the girl upon whom I have a crush ;) ) told me that I shouldn't even go to the store hungry, because I'll only end up eating junk food.
Jordan (Blog write Boof), reminds me that the great thing about the variety pak is that its only a bowl at a time. Just enough to take off the edge. And if I should just so happen with a Cookie Crisp that's just a little too much sugar and not enough filling, I only have a bowl to soldier through, and not a whole box.
But then again I pause to consider my potential actions. I mean, what about the denizens of the variety pak? How could I use them so? I mean, yeah, sure, it's only a bowlful of commitment to me, but to them, its the whole thing. Its all they are. If I'm not looking at the variety pak with the intention of maybe buying the whole thing, am I fulfilling my gentleman's code?
I don't know about things sometimes, guys. Maybe I'll just have some oatmeal.
So here goes...
Right now in my life is like cereal.
I am a cereal eater who has been choosing from the variety pak his entire life. And I'm dying to settle down to one flavor. I'm sick and tired of only getting to appreciate a bowlful at a time.
Now, I thought I had my cereal -my Lucky Charms if you will. I had honestly thought I had the perfect cereal for me. But General Mills, in all of her Devilish mystery, has decided to stop production of that marshmallow and oats delicacy known as Lucky Charms and it sucks.
Yeah, perhaps General Mills will realize her mistake and start up her supply again, but something tells me waiting and hoping isn't the best use of my time. So, I'll send my letter of disappointment to the company's headquarters in Battle Creek, Michigan and know I did less than I could, but only what I should. If I wait... well I guess man cannot live on cereal alone anyway.
So its back to the variety pak that I dislike so much. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure I'm even in the mood for cereal. (Not that I'm in the mood for sausage.... Okay, bad joke)
But here's the thing. Its morning and I'm freaking starving.
My wonderful friend Stacey (the girl upon whom I have a crush ;) ) told me that I shouldn't even go to the store hungry, because I'll only end up eating junk food.
Jordan (Blog write Boof), reminds me that the great thing about the variety pak is that its only a bowl at a time. Just enough to take off the edge. And if I should just so happen with a Cookie Crisp that's just a little too much sugar and not enough filling, I only have a bowl to soldier through, and not a whole box.
But then again I pause to consider my potential actions. I mean, what about the denizens of the variety pak? How could I use them so? I mean, yeah, sure, it's only a bowlful of commitment to me, but to them, its the whole thing. Its all they are. If I'm not looking at the variety pak with the intention of maybe buying the whole thing, am I fulfilling my gentleman's code?
I don't know about things sometimes, guys. Maybe I'll just have some oatmeal.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Comfort
I was fighting off a bit of lonliness last night and I decided to make a mental list of things that comfort me. Specifically, sensations that make me feel warm and happy. Y'know, the ones that touch the ticklish part of the heart.
I'll just list a few or four or five and please, feel free to add any you'd like.
There's the feeling you get when trying on a tuxedo and you look in the mirror and talk to yourself in the mirror using your best/worst Sean Connery. "Pushy-Galore" Or, [in a girly voice] "Oh James! I got you all wet!" [back to 007] "itsh okay, my martini's shtill dry... take off your pantish."
Cleaning out the lint-trap in the clothes dryer.
The few seconds where the sheets are cold in bed that makes you ball up right before you get warm.
The feeling you get as you turn to the second-to-the-last page of a really good book and you can see the silhouette of the last words through the page.
Wearing a hoodie straight out of the dryer.
Two words: "Ears" and "Q-tips."
Scratching the itch on your nose after you put down the really heavy box full of super-fragile stuff.
Hitting a baseball right in the sweet spot of the bat.
Running barefoot through wet, freshly cut, grass.
The way my mom smells.
Unwrapping a new DVD.
Having all seven seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer... um, or so I've heard....
Sticking your tongue out at someone when they aren't looking...
Any more to add?
I'll just list a few or four or five and please, feel free to add any you'd like.
There's the feeling you get when trying on a tuxedo and you look in the mirror and talk to yourself in the mirror using your best/worst Sean Connery. "Pushy-Galore" Or, [in a girly voice] "Oh James! I got you all wet!" [back to 007] "itsh okay, my martini's shtill dry... take off your pantish."
Cleaning out the lint-trap in the clothes dryer.
The few seconds where the sheets are cold in bed that makes you ball up right before you get warm.
The feeling you get as you turn to the second-to-the-last page of a really good book and you can see the silhouette of the last words through the page.
Wearing a hoodie straight out of the dryer.
Two words: "Ears" and "Q-tips."
Scratching the itch on your nose after you put down the really heavy box full of super-fragile stuff.
Hitting a baseball right in the sweet spot of the bat.
Running barefoot through wet, freshly cut, grass.
The way my mom smells.
Unwrapping a new DVD.
Having all seven seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer... um, or so I've heard....
Sticking your tongue out at someone when they aren't looking...
Any more to add?
Monday, January 10, 2005
A glimpse through the window....
I'm "brookshallprez" and my good friend an recent Baylor Alumni, Sam Ikonne is "SASEIKON." I don't know why I'm actually publishing this. Its not like I'm an especially whiney person. I guess this is just the closest thing I can give you into my mind-set right now.
brookshallprez: so how was SO CO?
SASEIKON: it was fun
SASEIKON: it was a good getaway
brookshallprez: yeah, no men in white robes?
brookshallprez: awesome
SASEIKON: plent of confederate flags
brookshallprez: no crap man
brookshallprez: lol
brookshallprez: i mean, i'm only a pollack and I felt self-conscious
brookshallprez: jk
brookshallprez: but seriously, i really liked it when i visited
brookshallprez: beautiful country!
brookshallprez: how's Kel? good i hope?
SASEIKON: she is going good
SASEIKON: just doing the same old, same old
brookshallprez: i'm honestly glad to hear it
brookshallprez: so, i'm well, than
SASEIKON: well over time things should be fine
brookshallprez: thank-you, "dear abbey"
brookshallprez: ;-)brookshallprez: any more cliche' advice to give?
brookshallprez: i'm actually joking
SASEIKON: well i mean what can i say other than the next time you enter into a relationship make sure it is for the right reasons and understand that nothing is for sure
brookshallprez: i think this time was for the "right reasons" but it just didn't work out
brookshallprez: and i think, honestly, that i should just stop torturing myself by wondering why i got dumped by just saying "she was a psycho who didn't value my state of mind enough to let me know why i got dumped" But I've tried that. And, it turns out, I don't think she's crazy at all. Just... just a mystery.
SASEIKON: Neil here is something helps me through those times, most girls dont know what they want
brookshallprez: now that's good advice
SASEIKON: especially at this age half the stuff they say they dont really believe and many of there relationship amoung themselves aren't that real
SASEIKON: so we as guys just have to be patient for the right girl that wants a geniune relationship
SASEIKON: cause most girls want to be love, but have never taken the time to be humble enough to actually learn to love someone eles
SASEIKON: they are in love with the idea instead of knowing what the reality is all about brookshallprez: dude, this is good stuff
brookshallprez: honestly
SASEIKON: yeah i only came to this conclusion after first examining myself and realizing i have those same problems
brookshallprez: oh damnit
SASEIKON: cause i mean if you read 1 Corinthians 13 and see what it says about love brookshallprez: i suppose you're telling me I'm as much to blame as well
SASEIKON: not necessarily i really dont know everything that happened
SASEIKON: but i mean i think it is healthy to look at yourself and examine possibly what you might have done wrong or why you did the things you did
SASEIKON: and take lessons from that
brookshallprez: yeah...brookshallprez: but this year has sort have been a case-study in "regret"
brookshallprez: end of the college career... "what could I have done better?"
brookshallprez: first semester of Grad school, immersed in people that are, for the first time i can honestly remember, for the most part, every bit as smart as I am
SASEIKON: yeah that is life the only thing really great about a person is that there is only one of all of us
brookshallprez: yeah, we're all unique... just like everyone else
SASEIKON: but i believe that is the great thing because God has just made one us and we are called to do something in a way that only we as unique individuals can do
brookshallprez: Way to go, Sam, completely ignore my cynicism
SASEIKON: yeah someone has to
brookshallprez: keep going, it completely adds to the effect that's going to come out when i publish this all as a blog
SASEIKON: cool i am going to be part of your blod
brookshallprez: yeah, also part of my "blog"
** a couple of minutes go by **
brookshallprez: get it? i was making fun of you just then
brookshallprez: y'know, you miss-spelled "blog"
brookshallprez: i corrected you...
brookshallprez: is this thing on? (taps mike)
SASEIKON: i have a cold so i am not as sharp as i usually am
brookshallprez: excuses, excuses
brookshallprez: long story-short
brookshallprez: thanks, Sam
SASEIKON: well i plan on coming to Baylor on Firday
brookshallprez: wicked
SASEIKON: no joke
brookshallprez: you can look me up
SASEIKON: yeah i will call you on Thursday
brookshallprez: do it
brookshallprez: hollar
SASEIKON: i will
SASEIKON: i might come in on thursday night it just depends
brookshallprez: if you need a place to stay...
brookshallprez: call Eric
SASEIKON: thats hot
brookshallprez: ;-)
SASEIKON: nah i'll call you instead
brookshallprez: word
SASEIKON: or Hassan
brookshallprez: seriously, though
brookshallprez: my casa
brookshallprez: es su-irish pub
SASEIKON: right, right
brookshallprez: so you can come over and not drink with me
SASEIKON: well i'll call before i come
brookshallprez: can't wait
brookshallprez: night bro
SASEIKON: night
brookshallprez: so how was SO CO?
SASEIKON: it was fun
SASEIKON: it was a good getaway
brookshallprez: yeah, no men in white robes?
brookshallprez: awesome
SASEIKON: plent of confederate flags
brookshallprez: no crap man
brookshallprez: lol
brookshallprez: i mean, i'm only a pollack and I felt self-conscious
brookshallprez: jk
brookshallprez: but seriously, i really liked it when i visited
brookshallprez: beautiful country!
brookshallprez: how's Kel? good i hope?
SASEIKON: she is going good
SASEIKON: just doing the same old, same old
brookshallprez: i'm honestly glad to hear it
brookshallprez: so, i'm well, than
brookshallprez: heart still different shades of being broken. -but thanks for asking
SASEIKON: well over time things should be fine
brookshallprez: thank-you, "dear abbey"
brookshallprez: ;-)brookshallprez: any more cliche' advice to give?
brookshallprez: i'm actually joking
SASEIKON: well i mean what can i say other than the next time you enter into a relationship make sure it is for the right reasons and understand that nothing is for sure
brookshallprez: i think this time was for the "right reasons" but it just didn't work out
brookshallprez: and i think, honestly, that i should just stop torturing myself by wondering why i got dumped by just saying "she was a psycho who didn't value my state of mind enough to let me know why i got dumped" But I've tried that. And, it turns out, I don't think she's crazy at all. Just... just a mystery.
SASEIKON: Neil here is something helps me through those times, most girls dont know what they want
brookshallprez: now that's good advice
SASEIKON: especially at this age half the stuff they say they dont really believe and many of there relationship amoung themselves aren't that real
SASEIKON: so we as guys just have to be patient for the right girl that wants a geniune relationship
SASEIKON: cause most girls want to be love, but have never taken the time to be humble enough to actually learn to love someone eles
SASEIKON: they are in love with the idea instead of knowing what the reality is all about brookshallprez: dude, this is good stuff
brookshallprez: honestly
SASEIKON: yeah i only came to this conclusion after first examining myself and realizing i have those same problems
brookshallprez: oh damnit
SASEIKON: cause i mean if you read 1 Corinthians 13 and see what it says about love brookshallprez: i suppose you're telling me I'm as much to blame as well
SASEIKON: not necessarily i really dont know everything that happened
SASEIKON: but i mean i think it is healthy to look at yourself and examine possibly what you might have done wrong or why you did the things you did
SASEIKON: and take lessons from that
brookshallprez: yeah...brookshallprez: but this year has sort have been a case-study in "regret"
brookshallprez: end of the college career... "what could I have done better?"
brookshallprez: first semester of Grad school, immersed in people that are, for the first time i can honestly remember, for the most part, every bit as smart as I am
SASEIKON: yeah that is life the only thing really great about a person is that there is only one of all of us
brookshallprez: yeah, we're all unique... just like everyone else
SASEIKON: but i believe that is the great thing because God has just made one us and we are called to do something in a way that only we as unique individuals can do
brookshallprez: Way to go, Sam, completely ignore my cynicism
SASEIKON: yeah someone has to
brookshallprez: keep going, it completely adds to the effect that's going to come out when i publish this all as a blog
SASEIKON: cool i am going to be part of your blod
brookshallprez: yeah, also part of my "blog"
** a couple of minutes go by **
brookshallprez: get it? i was making fun of you just then
brookshallprez: y'know, you miss-spelled "blog"
brookshallprez: i corrected you...
brookshallprez: is this thing on? (taps mike)
SASEIKON: i have a cold so i am not as sharp as i usually am
brookshallprez: excuses, excuses
brookshallprez: long story-short
brookshallprez: thanks, Sam
SASEIKON: well i plan on coming to Baylor on Firday
brookshallprez: wicked
SASEIKON: no joke
brookshallprez: you can look me up
SASEIKON: yeah i will call you on Thursday
brookshallprez: do it
brookshallprez: hollar
SASEIKON: i will
SASEIKON: i might come in on thursday night it just depends
brookshallprez: if you need a place to stay...
brookshallprez: call Eric
SASEIKON: thats hot
brookshallprez: ;-)
SASEIKON: nah i'll call you instead
brookshallprez: word
SASEIKON: or Hassan
brookshallprez: seriously, though
brookshallprez: my casa
brookshallprez: es su-irish pub
SASEIKON: right, right
brookshallprez: so you can come over and not drink with me
SASEIKON: well i'll call before i come
brookshallprez: can't wait
brookshallprez: night bro
SASEIKON: night
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