I know how the Fires of Hell taste...

I was originally going to send this to Amanda in text form... but balked for obvious reasons. Enjoy:

I'm going to blog about this later, but I thought you might enjoy a story of how my doe-eyed trusting nature screwed me once again.

So Danielle, an anime/manga freak of a student worker whose only discernible skill is avoiding work, starts giggling and bickering with her boyfriend, Guy another student worker. Naturally, I eavesdrop. They're debating whether "Neil will try it or not."

So I walk up.

"Oh hey Neil!" Danielle says through eyes devoid of conscience, "want to try this hot sauce? It's really spice but REALLY good."

"Sure," I say, "I like spicey stuff."

"Great!" Danielle, that succubus of innocence, exclaims. "I saved you a chicken tender. Go to town."

So I dip a healthy dallop of the dark-dark red sauce and took a bite.

Now in retrospect, perhaps I should have noticed the relatively TINY size of the container of supposed "Hot Sauce" compared to the gallon containers of ranch that this girl USUALLY subjects her food to. Or maybe perhaps I should have noticed how Guy's eyes grew to the point where they could have doubled for rims on Shaq's Bentley...

But alas, I noticed nothing until I started to chew.

My mouth was aflame. I can only honestly describe the feeling as a cross between a Rampage Jackson hay-maker to the mouth and a passionate make-out session with the rusty tailpipe of a overheated '69 Chevelle.

But I'm a man, and this wasn't my first rodeo. I soldier up, for the sake of the troops, and swallow. (yes, I'm fighting the use of a "that's what SHE said" joke as well).

I'm cool for the most part. No tears. But my mouth, literally, hurts and I've already downed most of a nalgene bottle of water. I'm ignoring their hoots of approval and I want to slap the looks of pure adoration for this manly deed right off their still pubescent faces. I'm currently doing a mental inventory of alkaline substances at my disposal as I sit down and try to go back to work. No milk. I honestly consider gurgling chlorine... (shut up, I still run the pool)...

So, after what I feel is enough space to give me some distance, I excuse myself to "go to my apartment and also check the pool numbers." I go to my apartment, chew a few antacid (years old, I think they still have a picture of "uncle joey" from FULL HOUSE on the box) and I have some cottage cheese and take a few mouthfuls of that. It helps.

So, feeling better, I go out to the pool and do what I do best: make fun of students.

After 5 minutes and bragging about how awesome I am for hitting this sauce described as "barely legal in the U.S.", Karma hits.

My gut first starts to tingle, then burn, then full-out viva la resistance revolt. There are French people in torn pirate shirts singing songs of rebellion and building barricades in the banlieue.

I honestly get a flash in my mind of Tom Skerritt in ALIEN.

Mumbling some fucking lame excuse, I start to walk towards my apartment. I trip on something before I realize that my pupils have honestly begun to dilate.

I pull out my FUCKING ID and honestly don't know if I can make it to my apartment. So I stop, try to catch my breath and lean over a trash can. But wait, after 30 seconds of exponentially increasing pain, I realize that I'm about to full-on yak into a recycling bin. Yes. I get the irony. I actually slipped a laugh out between gasps.

Bad move. Turns out, my abdominal muscles are the jealous type.

I hear a sound come from my bowels that would make a StarWars nerd applaud. It might have been Klingon, but I knew what it was saying "get this fucking shit out of me you worthless mouthful of cock." (sorry for the language)

I throw up everything I've had in the last 10 minutes. Water? Check. Cottage Cheese? Check. Red bits of Uncle Joey's worthless antacids? Check.

Chicken tender? No dice.

I'm in a cold sweat. My legs quite literally, are wonkier than a newborn colt.

I make it into my apartment and begin an immediate evacuation from my clothes. Everything... almost. Socks are a bitch to get off and the floor was kinda cold.

I'll spare you the rest of the gruesome details only to tell you that I'm only NOW fully recovered. I robed and went back to work. No one the wiser after being gone for 30 minutes. I stayed until around 6 and then came back and took a short nap.

I don't know what I did to deserve that habenero sauce. I honestly don't know.

But I'm sorry, Jesus. I really, truly am.

Fin

Education with "a Capital E."

I love my job. I love working with students.

College is such a dynamic time in one's life. I'm absolutely in love with how hundreds of people come here from nearly every walk of life, rich, poor, fat, smart, hot, cold, local, international, black, white, mixed, Christian, Muslim, even Mormons who aren't afraid of learning show up sometimes -all come here with different world views trying to leap all kinds of different hurdles to gain an education for a myriad of reasons.

What I think I like most, is the education aspect. I am enthralled by how everyone learns. It might be the one thing that every human being has in common.

But speaking of commonalities, no matter how different all our students may be, there seems to be a lot of the same mistakes made. The psychologist in me wants to talk about Piaget or Erikson or Kholberg or Chickering, but I'll just save you the tired dogma and nerd-talk and drop it like this: Students are a lot like people.

I have a lot of the same conversations about mistakes and dumb decisions, etc. I also hear a LOT of the same excuses. That's cool. Students make mistakes. They should. For some reason, there are lessons out there to be learned that can only be taught through the pain of consequence. Drinking too much = hangover. Not studying = bad grades. Taking turns with your best friend's brother shooting each other in the chest with a paintball gun = bruise on your sternum that makes breathing painful.

Y'know, the basics.

I expect the bone-headed lack of thinking from students. Its comforting. Like the changing color of leaves in the Fall, or the snow in winter, these are things we've all come to expect and plan for. In fact, I would say these are things, students screwing up, are almost depended on by us. While we're disappointed to see them, fixing them working through them gives us a sense of efficacy and job-well-doneness.

But something that really chafes my ass is when PARENTS are behaving badly. You, gentle readers, have no idea how often it is that the parents of a student are completely to blame for their behavior or trouble.

And I'm not just talking about questionable parenting. I've seen girls with enough hard alcohol in their fridge to intoxicate the Irish National Soccer team and while watching them dump out their gallon bottles of tequila, bacardi 151, and vodka complain "my mother JUST bought this for me for my [18th] birthday tomorrow." I've seen parents who send their children to a very stressful first year at college on more drugs than Heath Ledger spending Flu Season at Keith Richard's house (too soon?) and not feel the need to tell anyone that their child might be under stress.

But today, a good friend of mine sent me an email that sorta summed up what we, as professionals, have to sometimes deal with.

"My daughter has expressed interest in attending [your institution]. She is a very good student (SAT 710 math 720 Verbal - member of American MENSA). My brother lived in [this town] for several years and he expressed concern about crime in the [this town] area. Since only about 35% of your students live on campus it follows that should she attend [your institution] she will at some point live off campus out side the safety area provide by the University. Please speak to the safety issues I have mentioned."

Please speak to the safety issues I have mentioned... I honestly don't know what I would have said if this lady, who has every right to be concerned about the safety of her daughter, would have suggested to me that I start worrying about the safety of students as if that weren't already my #1 concern already.

"Oh, make things safer?!?! I hadn't thought of that. Let me go get my tazer and bullet-proof vest. And ma'am, do you mind if I keep your number so that I may call you back for future sage advice? I might be chewing some food later, and while I get the whole 'move the jaw up and down' thing, I sometimes get confused on how my tongue works into the equation..."

I've been told my sarcasm is sticky.

The worst part is that I completely understand how these parents have a right to be concerned. I understand that they want to give their children everything and how they're giving up control and how that can be incredibly scary and the anxiety caused by such can sometimes cloud reasonable thought.

I understand parents who simply don't speak the "college language." It is a whole new world here of forms and FAFSA's and deadlines and housing deposits and core curricula. I can completely understand how the confusion of a first-time college parent can cause the eyes to cross and the straight-forward to bend.

What I don't understand is the consumer culture that college seems to have adopted. Just because you pay to attend, does NOT mean you pay to have your happiness guaranteed. Good grades are a product that can be purchased only through effort, not cash.

Perhaps it is I that needs to change my attitude. Perhaps I need to realize that in today's fractured family unit, a student is not the only one receiving the education. Perhaps my inability to understand that not every parent is like mine, and expects me to deal with my messy roommate or the dude down the hall who watches animal porn "because it's funny, dude" on my own. Perhaps I am the strange one for thinking that my dealing with these issues without having my parents call the President's office made me a little better equipped to deal with the world at large.

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

One cloud is enough to block the sun

I guess my approach to my faith and the faith of others can be summed up in the thought that one cloud is enough to block the sun.

But the Sun still exists.

I understand that some people have gotten the shit end of the stick more often than not. And the hurts vary from a broken home to parents who cannot see past their own needs to atrocities I cannot understand. I can truly understand how some people can have trouble seeing the good for all the clouds that block their view.

But the Sun still exists.

But how can a small cloud block the sun, an object 864938 miles in diameter, it's 109 times the size of earth. It's a matter of perspective, quite literally. When you're closer to the little thing than the big, the big thing can get boxed out.

But the Sun still exists.

I guess I'm just saying that no cloud has the balls or gumption to outlast or outshine the sun. I guess at some point it just comes down to your ability to recognize the sun for what it is. Especially when you've never seen it shine before.

But it exists. I know that much.

I just really want everyone to enjoy a tan.

Haven't posted in a while...

Been tossing around the idea of getting back into the mix. We'll see how it goes.

Some people have asked me to post the speech I gave at the Leadership Banquet last week. And you all know how I love to give the people what they want...

2^nd lieutenant Benjamin Warren Golemo, 101^st Airborne, United States Military Academy at West Point class of 2007 left this morning for his first-ever platoon command somewhere in Baghdad.

My best friend. My closest soul. My biggest fan. My favorite person in the world. God’s greatest gift to me. My brother.

He’s leaving to fight a war about which I don’t think anyone knows exactly how to feel to defend a country, that while I love it with all my heart… I don’t know is always right.

And the job my brother is doing. His M.O.S. is without a doubt the most dangerous job in all of the Allied forces. He’s leading a platoon whose job it is to find, disarm or discharge the IED’s (Improvised Explosive Devices) that are responsible for nearly 40% of all of our soldiers killed or injured during Operation Iraqi Freedom.

And he fought for the job.

When he told me this, I screamed at him. “The world’s got enough heroes, Ben! And you’re not good-looking enough to have your face plastered on the dollar. Cause your nose is huge.” (He has a beak, I’m not kidding. The man can smoke a cigar in the shower.)

I asked him why? Your degree is in mechanical and electrical engineering. You should be behind a desk. A big, metal, desk…. Behind concrete walls… underground.

And he told me that there is no way he’d let someone else take his bullet. Those men need people who do, not assign. I’m here to lead.

Yeah.

Well never one to let the fact that I’m completely wrong keep me from making my point, I responded to him to spare me the “Hooah Army Poster-boy shhhstuff” and I reminded him that he has a family to worry about. I told him what it would do to me if he were to get hurt… or worse…

And he told me that he couldn’t think of a better way to honor our family than to lead where others might falter. What’s more, he said that he learned this not from weeks at Boot camp, or 4 years at the Point, or much less, an Army of One poster.

He said he learned it from a lifetime of watching me.

Yeah. Life has a way of putting you in your place.

He began to talk about my job and where I went versus where I could have gone and why.

You know, the best thing I have ever done in my life is be the big brother in a family. I went to Baylor, 854 miles from my doorstep, because a hot girl talked me into applying and I didn’t know a soul.

I became a Community Leader on that campus because I missed my family. I missed being a brother. That was one thing I knew I was good at it. I believe we are all called to honor each other; to be brothers and sisters to one another.

And then I found out I could get paid to talk other people believing that load, too.

I’ve got the best job on campus. Maybe I don’t get to sit in my Ivory tower… I mean CLB. Maybe I don't have a really intimidating nickname like "The Grinder." Maybe I don’t get a snazzy office with a sorta creepy Paper Mache Sarge to make my head look proportional by comparison... And no, maybe I don’t have the honor or contumacious grit to pull off the bow tie.

Yeah, Ricki, I said contumacious…. You DON’T want to play me in facebook scrabble.

I have the honor of working with a group of students. 15 fine young men and women willing to put their hearts and butts on the line, 15 men and women with hearts set for service, 15 men and women trying to be big brothers and sisters worrying about the rules only because they inform the safety and well-being of the community on campus.

15 men and women trying to be big brothers and sisters to people who sometimes don’t want a big brother or a sister… and they can be quite vocal about saying so.

William Quillen. What’s your number one job? (God, I hope he says: "To know all your residents.")

Why? (Because if we’re all doing our job, there’s not a single resident on campus who can say that someone doesn’t know their name.)

I have the privilege and blessing of rolling out of bed and walking 40 yards to an office full of people who refuse do put up with anything less.

I look around this room and I see the knowing glances that we don’t lead because it looks good on a resume, or because it gives our egos a nice stroke. We lead because, leading in right direction, is a service to our brothers and sisters.

As I look around this room, I see that the idea of honoring each other by being brother and sister to one another; to get in each other’s way and cheer them on when they’re doing well and maybe kick them in the rear when they’re living a little left…I can see that see very clearly in the eyes of each of you, each and every one of you, that this idea is not lost on a generation.

I don’t care what Todd Sutherland says.

(The speech went over well)

The Break in Spring

I've had some interesting Spring Breaks. I've gone to Chicago. I've gone to Colorado. I've gone to Washington, DC. So the prospect of staying here in Galveston, Texas didn't seem overwhelmingly amazing. But it ended up possibly being my best ever.

I got two play host to not one, but two world-wise and savvy modern-day Elizabeth Bennets. Sara and Em, thank-you for allowing me to be one of the cheering throng beside your parade through the world. For the life of me, I cannot remember being more entertained while entertaining. You were the perfect guests.

The last few days, however, I've kept a promise and done absolutely no work. Which means, that for the last 72 hours, I've had no place to hide from my thoughts.

It's tough to walk on a beach and not get sorta philosophical. You have waves crashing into other waves, driving them in slightly other directions and each carrying sand here and there. You have little boys who pose for pictures that parents will use as blackmail later in their lives. You have little girls who run around with little pot-bellies completely oblivious to things such as tan lines and muffin-tops. And I'll spare you a metaphor my mind concocted for old German men in banana hammocks...

But this week I've noticed how absurd life can be. How entropic the world can seem. A friend gets scammed on Ebay. Another friend is awaiting news about the "lumps" she found. And people are trying to figure out if they can find all the peices of their broken hearts. And even I, with nary a thing to complain about, am frustrated when I look at the machinery of my life.

One thing this job has taught me very well is that it is one thing to have the outlook that everything in life, for good or bad, can be used to give us perspective. That every moment is but one in a billion-billion. That we can't appreciate the good without the bad.

But it is another thing altogether to try and translate that smug and high-brow thought to someone who is dealing with the prospect of litterally losing a part of their body. Where the fuck do I get off? And so here I am, normally verbose and witty, reduced to "oh man... wow... I don't know what to say."

But then again maybe I should just have the balls to say that. No?

I'm consistently shocked that in all the entropy of life, in all the absurd things that happen without any apparent reason, I see one distinct universal truth: that no one is immune. Everyone has something. Cancer, quadrapolegia, death, loss, a broken heart. Hell, even in my favorite case study: Paris Hilton we see something: that the apparent lack of any hardship at all has completely atrophied any muscle that could allow her any meaningful interaction with the real world.

She is the leopard raised in captivity and fed spam on sticks.

Even I, with the world on my platter: a sharp wit, shining personality and stunning good looks have my issues. I have painted myself into a corner where I have no community outside of my very wonderful job. And instead of dealing with it by searching, I've buried my head in the sand of my work. And I have been so oblivious to my whole situation that I couldn't even recognize that I might be attracted to someone. I had simply cut that part of my diet out. No vitamin C. And now I'm fighting emotional scurvy.

Yeah, I know I took that last metaphor a couple sentences too long, but maybe I just wanted to show off my knowledge of scurvy there.

I guess my point is that everyone has something. Everyone is a little bit broken. Everyone has something to which they're trying to adapt or from which they're fighting back. Its all part of the natural current of things. If we're night fighting, we're dying. And seeing as how that really is the one thing that every person has in common, maybe we're called to help each other out. Maybe we're called to push each other in a slightly different direction. We need to get in each other's way.

We all have our broken parts. And maybe, just maybe, if I'm man enough to pour into others and even more manly of me, if I could have the guts to let someone pour into me, I could make my wounds heal. And something tells me they'd be stronger at the break.

From the G to the H

Right.

So here sits I, listening to a little Nas, trying to enjoy a little moment of mental centeredness. Right now, I am the King of all I survey. Both in the emotional AND the office-management meaning of the phrase.

Its a quiet world.

In about three hours, I'm about to start my drive from my New home of Galveston, Texas to my old Home of Hamilton, Illinois. I know I've talked about this before, but I'm fascinated by how when I'm here, I'm a respected (okay, semi-respected) Student Services Professional. People call me "Mr. Golemo" sometimes.

But somewhere between here and "The Big Ill" I shed the cape and top hat of decorum and professionality and am left 6 years old, in my spiderman underoos, crying about how I my sister hurt my hand... with her face... [wimpers... with occasional glances to see if Pappacho is buying it]

I'm no longer "Neil E. Golemo, with a Master's of Education" I'm "Neeeeeeely Golemo, who never stops master-..." -well you get the idea.

High school was a tough time for me. I was a very late-bloomer with a strong case of Catholic guilt and parent's who were too tricky to let me underacheive... too much. I didn't drink. I didn't chew... and I didn't go with the girls that do... no matter how hard I might have tried.

And no matter how confident I am in the man I know I've become, hob-nobbing with famous and powerful people, making meaningful friendships and finding true purpose in a job I freaking love, some not small part of me still yearns for the acceptance of the people I was too blinded by insecurity to get to really know. Yeah, I can call them stuck-up -because sometimes they were. But I played the game too, right? We were doing the Sharks and Jets dance... but in the end we were the same. It turns out High Schoolers are a lot like people.

I'm no better.

I often say that a person never changes more in their lives than they do in that first year from the summer before and after their freshman year of college. And I stand by that. So its fascinating and fustrating and surprising and disappointing and scary to go back home to try and fit yourself, with your new square edges, if even for a night, into a round hole you never really fit into in the first place. And scariest of all, when you realize that maybe your edges are a little bit more round than you thought they were. And round is comforting.

So I'm excited to go back home. And I'm becoming ok with that. Hamilton might not be a great place for me to live. But it was a fantastic place for me to be from. I'm okay with that.

And I always love my visits.

Texas, I'll be back in a minute.

Rounding out the edges

For Thanksgiving this year, I went to Lake Jackson, Texas, tagging along with two friends of mine, Baylor grads who have adopted me since I moved to Galveston.

It was weird and different and strange for a plethora of reasons: it was my first Thanksgiving ever spent outside of the state of Illinois, it was my first Thanksgiving without a family member within smacking distance, my first Thanksgiving without my brother and sisters. We fried the Turkey. It was extremely nice and pleasant. I enjoyed myself immensely and was, haha, very thankful for the hospitality I enjoyed.

I'm 25 now. So this was my 26th Thanksgiving. Wow.

I overheard a lady the other day talking about how "this year Thanksgiving is just another day to me." I remember my head snapping back to look at her as if maybe the statement was just a figment of my overactive imagination. Thanksgiving, while yes, starting and ending with the sun just as any other day, could never be such in my eyes.

Thanksgiving is when my mom and at least 2 of her 4 sisters and all of their families, progeny, entourages and hangers-on make the twisty drive down my Grandma's grey gravel lane, skirting the pond and park by the garage. They hold their platters high and hug absent-mindedly as they dodge outdoor dogs whose behavior is only cared about around family gatherings.

I listen to my cousin Monica repeat the same gripe for the 20th year in a row about "who she has to knock off to get a seat at the grown-up table... she has two children for crap's sake." My cousin Zach usually practices his stand-up and button-pushing on us, centering on Steve, Monica's husband. It's pretty simple: get Steve to laugh, then Monica will be mad at him for encouraging Zach and Zach... is free. Go Zach Go.

Andee, not to be outdone invariable has one of her family get-together melt-downs. Epic, my friends. No one ever remembers what starts it all off. (Its always Zach's, Nick's or my fault.) We're usually too distracted by Andee's verbal flailings and accusations of abandonment when we should be staying out of her business in the first place. It nearly always ends up with her locking herself in the bathroom. Sweet Jesus, I miss her.

So yes, I missed all of that. I missed showing up with my parents and fighting for a seat on the couch. I missed doing dishes elbow-to-elbow with a cousin who also said something dumb. I missed being asked by my Great-Great-Great Aunt Dorethy (who tells the best stories) where my "seniorita" is? I moved to Texas. I guess I asked for it. I missed sitting at the kid's table.

It was a little strange sitting at the head of the only table at Thanksgiving, eating fried Turkey and corn-bread stuffing with pecans, being 1 of only 7 people, drinking fine wine and talking of trips to Australia's wine country and not the bowel movements of my brother's roommates. It was a little strange. But not bad.

I got a little perspective this year. I got to see how others live. I got to experience an "adult" Thanksgiving. The kind that people who don't have 3 brothers and sisters enjoy. I am thankful for that, not sad. Brian and Kristen cared enough about me to bring me into their homes and welcome me as their guest. These two people who, a month ago barely knew me from Adam. I am blessed for that.

I guess that's the great thing about perspective. It helps us to round out the edges. As I was telling my friend Charlotte, a broken heart stretches our boundaries and helps us appreciate how good it feels to have love.

The turkey tastes better when you've gone hungry.

A warm blanket feels better when you've been cold.

And being home feels the greatest when you've been a stranger in a strange land for months.

I can't help but wonder if maybe Paris Hilton wouldn't be such a vapid bitch if she had an understanding what it was like to be hungry and cold and lonely and tired but having to work anyway. She has no experience to help her see. When I think of how my hurts have help me appreciate my joys, and how my loves have helped me truly feel the depth and fidelity of my losses, I feel horrible for how meaningless everything must seem for her. No wonder she whores herself for attention, she's desperate for feeling.

I love how the world was constructed to teach. If we're willing to consider them, every little experience, from stop-light to chemo-therapy, can help us to better understand the "why's" and "what-for's." It's tiring, I know. But we feel for a reason, and we don't hurt without one. Don't worry about the reason. Just wonder why.

If life is a game. Play the 48, enjoy the orange slices Jimmy's mom brought, and worry about the score later.