About a year and a half ago, I bought my car. It is a 2006 black, Honda Element and I love it. LOVE it. It's fun, gets decent gas mileage, and big enough for what I want to do. It is a REALLY well thought-out car. I had a friend's kid completely hark in the back seat. 30 minutes and a rest-stop hose later and we were vomit-free and wondering about what was for lunch...
But over the last 18 months, a little bit of the shine has worn off. I still love the car, but I don't baby it as I used to. A new scratch isn't met with fretting. If I go an extra week without washing the car, or an extra month without changing the oil, so be it.
I remember my old car, my 1996 Dodge Stratus. I LOVED that car. I still miss it some days. By the end, it was a real POS, but it was MY POS and as long as it lived, I still wanted it to be the thing that got me places. But there were things that were just straight-up broken on that car. The bumper never got 100% fixed after that time I got pulled out of a snow drift. The CD player would work sometimes... if the temperature was just right. And the cruise control, well, that was just a crap-shoot. But I'll be damned if I didn't shed a tear the day I traded it in for Ellie.
I've been wondering a lot about people being "broken." I hear it a lot, especially with the pappy cliche crap that gets thrown around, especially in my Baylor circle of friends. It's an idea that we're all "broken people" and imperfect, rought with sin and vice.
But no one ever talks about being "fixed." Christianity doesn't make us "fixed."
I think that if you live long enough, you're going to get some scratches and you're going to have some things about you that are "broken." But do you ever get them fixed?
I know some people who are pretty hard on themselves. They know they're broken and they judge and hurt and wallow in their brokeness. They cut themselves off because they don't want anyone else to have to sit through a drive with them without a CD Player. Or they don't want someone to make the trip from Waco to Galveston without a cruise-control.
But maybe they're wrong. Maybe being happy isn't getting "fixed" but rather understanding that some of the greatest conversations I've ever had, were in that Stratus because we had no music to distract us from talking and that there were nights where using the cruise control during the 2AM drive in the middle of nowhere would have gotten me killed. I would have fallen asleep.
I'm just saying that, in life, we have bruises and hurts and neuroses and problems. And some of them necessitate help, some of them necessitate time, and I honestly believe some of them necessitate forgiveness.
We're all broken. Some of us much more than others. But happiness isn't being "fixed." Maybe it's merely knowing your dents, scratches and faulty parts are part of who you are, your charm, what someone will love about you and learning to have a conversation instead of singing along to Beyonce.
I know that life is short and expensive. Who has time to sit in a driveway, wishing you were perfect, when you've got places to go and adventures to have? I've loved cars before, and I'll probably love more, but I know a good thing when I've got it. And I have it now.
Love the now, for yesterday is gone, and tomorrow may never come.
Love Now, broken pieces and all.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The Stork neither Twitters nor Tweets.
"I didn't have kids to make friends!" is a quote my mother is very famous for saying to strangers as they gawked at a woman holding a screaming baby while simultaneously keeping my brother and me from killing each other (we had a thing for throwing cans) in the middle of a discount food store.
I often wonder if my mother would have Twittered if she could have while we were growing up. I feel like the thing about twittering that makes it so addictive to me is that it gives me a chance to express myself and what is going on in my life. Like screaming into a pillow, I need to tell someone, let someone know what's going on.
For instance, when I'm texting Sam, I don't really twitter.
And I can't imagine anyone more desperate for a release valve than a young parent.
I love kids. I LOVE them. They're precocious and funny and innocent and, most charmingly, simple. They have the simple blessing of being the emotional basic tool set from Wal-Mart. They don't need the socket-wrench when all you do is poop, eat, sleep and cry.
That being said, I'm not a huge fan of infants. They're cute, but the interaction is rather limited. They're basically a miniature great-grand-parent only they don't smell like cats/frustration and hide their racism better.
For my money, I like the 18-month olds and up. Right when they're talking and they're still a little fun to play with. They're walking and learning every curse you can slip out of your mouth. Kind of like writing in ink and hoping you don't sneeze. Its exciting!
We all hit that age where people start getting married and everyone comments: "Oh, they're rather young, aren't they?" And then, somewhere after undergrad and the end of grad school you hear the comments about upcoming nuptuals shift from "Oh that's so nice!!" to "Well, damn, its about time" to "Dang, I thought he was gay."
And then finally, your peers begin to have babies.
I don't have any idea how to process that thought.
I love my parents. They are wonderful, beautiful, charming, loving, kind and good. But as I begin to pop the pills of perspective that life prescribes for me, I see through dilated eyes more than I have before who my parents are. My dad is awesome, but he has a temper and oftentimes lets it cloud his judgment. My mother is one of the most brilliant women on earth, but she forgets to put both socks on sometimes.
And they have four children.
I often wonder where people get off having children. I think it takes a special kind of arrogance/confidence (or both) to think you have the ability to raise children in a world rife with drugs and peer pressure and money problems and cancer and Enron and rapists and heartbreak and the Twilight books.
And that's assuming you are a good parent. My parents were a tag team and perhaps the biggest reason for any success I've had or ever will have.
Their unconditional love, wisdom and contumacious insistence on putting my needs before theirs are my biggest blessing in my life.
What about those of us not blessed so? In the course of my job and life I've met souls from homes I can't fathom. Angry split parents playing "gotcha" on the battlefield of their children's hearts. Parents who insist on being their child's best friend when they need someone to give them structure. Parents who say hurtful things and judge too harshly. Parents who try to live vicariously through their children. Or even worse, parents who treat their children as though they were new Fendi bag that goes out of style all too soon.
Octo-mom.
Growing up you think of parents as perfect shelters. It is quite the shock when you realize that parents are really a lot like people. Imperfect and broken. So where do we get off having children?
Are they the consumation of love between two people as I was raised to believe? Are we lonely and just want someone who has to depend on us? Are they your chance at finally achieving some sort of glory on the football field/golf course/chess team? Or are they the miraculous result of sugary drinks with exotic names hidden behind cute umbrellas and veil of deniability? Sometimes I just refer to them as "proof of sex."
Or maybe all or even none of the above?
I want children someday. Maybe. I think. But when I say that, its like me talking about the dog I've wanted for the last 3 years but, upon a moment's reflection realize that I have a hard enough time making it back to my own bathroom without crapping my pants (it comes on me quick, friends) without trying to manage something else's poop schedule.
It's one of those things in which the goodness sounded in theory doesn't echo so much in practice. Like wearing the "Green Man" suit to a bar in a hot Texas summer... especially when you sweat more in some areas than others.
But then again, Children are a fad with staying power. People have been doing it for a while and it is definitely not stopping anytime soon. One is born every 5 seconds and in every country in the world. Can't beat that for popularity.
Its a scary idea. But for every Hitler, Mozart, Curie, Einstein, Khan and Piccard, there's a million "normal" people. People raised by people raised by people. Loving, wanting, hurting and living.
Maybe children are what the cliche's say they are. Maybe they are a chance, a shot in the dark that they can be a little something better than we are. I love the idea of being so in love with someone that I want to place a bet that the potential bad in me could be mitigated by the good in her in our progeny. That, and there'd be proof I had sex at least once.
At the very least, I'd have an excuse to Twitter more often.
I often wonder if my mother would have Twittered if she could have while we were growing up. I feel like the thing about twittering that makes it so addictive to me is that it gives me a chance to express myself and what is going on in my life. Like screaming into a pillow, I need to tell someone, let someone know what's going on.
For instance, when I'm texting Sam, I don't really twitter.
And I can't imagine anyone more desperate for a release valve than a young parent.
I love kids. I LOVE them. They're precocious and funny and innocent and, most charmingly, simple. They have the simple blessing of being the emotional basic tool set from Wal-Mart. They don't need the socket-wrench when all you do is poop, eat, sleep and cry.
That being said, I'm not a huge fan of infants. They're cute, but the interaction is rather limited. They're basically a miniature great-grand-parent only they don't smell like cats/frustration and hide their racism better.
For my money, I like the 18-month olds and up. Right when they're talking and they're still a little fun to play with. They're walking and learning every curse you can slip out of your mouth. Kind of like writing in ink and hoping you don't sneeze. Its exciting!
We all hit that age where people start getting married and everyone comments: "Oh, they're rather young, aren't they?" And then, somewhere after undergrad and the end of grad school you hear the comments about upcoming nuptuals shift from "Oh that's so nice!!" to "Well, damn, its about time" to "Dang, I thought he was gay."
And then finally, your peers begin to have babies.
I don't have any idea how to process that thought.
I love my parents. They are wonderful, beautiful, charming, loving, kind and good. But as I begin to pop the pills of perspective that life prescribes for me, I see through dilated eyes more than I have before who my parents are. My dad is awesome, but he has a temper and oftentimes lets it cloud his judgment. My mother is one of the most brilliant women on earth, but she forgets to put both socks on sometimes.
And they have four children.
I often wonder where people get off having children. I think it takes a special kind of arrogance/confidence (or both) to think you have the ability to raise children in a world rife with drugs and peer pressure and money problems and cancer and Enron and rapists and heartbreak and the Twilight books.
And that's assuming you are a good parent. My parents were a tag team and perhaps the biggest reason for any success I've had or ever will have.
Their unconditional love, wisdom and contumacious insistence on putting my needs before theirs are my biggest blessing in my life.
What about those of us not blessed so? In the course of my job and life I've met souls from homes I can't fathom. Angry split parents playing "gotcha" on the battlefield of their children's hearts. Parents who insist on being their child's best friend when they need someone to give them structure. Parents who say hurtful things and judge too harshly. Parents who try to live vicariously through their children. Or even worse, parents who treat their children as though they were new Fendi bag that goes out of style all too soon.
Octo-mom.
Growing up you think of parents as perfect shelters. It is quite the shock when you realize that parents are really a lot like people. Imperfect and broken. So where do we get off having children?
Are they the consumation of love between two people as I was raised to believe? Are we lonely and just want someone who has to depend on us? Are they your chance at finally achieving some sort of glory on the football field/golf course/chess team? Or are they the miraculous result of sugary drinks with exotic names hidden behind cute umbrellas and veil of deniability? Sometimes I just refer to them as "proof of sex."
Or maybe all or even none of the above?
I want children someday. Maybe. I think. But when I say that, its like me talking about the dog I've wanted for the last 3 years but, upon a moment's reflection realize that I have a hard enough time making it back to my own bathroom without crapping my pants (it comes on me quick, friends) without trying to manage something else's poop schedule.
It's one of those things in which the goodness sounded in theory doesn't echo so much in practice. Like wearing the "Green Man" suit to a bar in a hot Texas summer... especially when you sweat more in some areas than others.
But then again, Children are a fad with staying power. People have been doing it for a while and it is definitely not stopping anytime soon. One is born every 5 seconds and in every country in the world. Can't beat that for popularity.
Its a scary idea. But for every Hitler, Mozart, Curie, Einstein, Khan and Piccard, there's a million "normal" people. People raised by people raised by people. Loving, wanting, hurting and living.
Maybe children are what the cliche's say they are. Maybe they are a chance, a shot in the dark that they can be a little something better than we are. I love the idea of being so in love with someone that I want to place a bet that the potential bad in me could be mitigated by the good in her in our progeny. That, and there'd be proof I had sex at least once.
At the very least, I'd have an excuse to Twitter more often.
Monday, March 09, 2009
In Trust we God.
Everyone needs something. Fish need water. Birds need sky. Dogs need butts to sniff. People need people.
Sometimes the water is dirty. Sometimes the sky is cloudy. Sometimes the butts belong to mannequins, devoid of interesting scent. Sometimes people are assholes.
But people need people.
I am a trusting person. I am one of the most upbeat, positive and optimistic people you will ever meet. I am curious. I always want to see the other side of a thing. I am always thinking. I believe in love.
I have an awesome, but very demanding, job that allows me to talk to and get to know and invest in very interesting, questioning, young men and women in need of a hand-up or a little bit of perspective. I am needed every day. It is a great thing to be needed; to be respected and relied upon.
But one thing about the nature of my job, I run Residence Life for Texas A&M's campus in Galveston, is that I very often get called upon to manage the very best or worst things that happen on this campus. It's a game of minimum's and maximums. It's a series of hills and valleys.
I have my trust violated often, my hopes dashed regularly, and my love goes unrequited as often as not. I tend to live and die with the successes and failures of my students... which means I get hurt a lot.
When I love, I tend to go to the hilt, head over heels, unquestionably on tilt, like Quixote towards his Giants.
Why? Why do we do this? Why did God make me this way?
One of the big questions I hope I get answered in the big "day-after-crossword puzzle-check-to-see-how-many-you-got-right" session with St. Peter or God or Buddha or whomever when I die is "what does God mean when he said he created us in 'his own image'?" Did he make us sentient like him? Did me mean it literally? That there's some really old dude out in space somewhere, white robes and flowing white beard?
I think it makes most sense to look at the common things about us all. And I think the answer is obvious. We all need love. Even God, in his omnipotence and wisdom, wasn't complete without others to love and love him in return.
So maybe my trusting nature is a good thing. Maybe being a Pollyanna ain't so bad.
I trust that I will love. I trust that I will get hurt. I trust that I will have my heart broken. But I also trust that there are some lessons that only experience can teach me. I know that when the skin is cut or a bone is broken, scars form to strengthen the cut and the break, leaving the mend even stronger than it was previously.
So I trust that my heart, when broken, will heal stronger at the break.
When I hear about a student who doesn't like me, I usually just assume its because they really don't know me. I'm a pretty likable guy.
Though I am the only commonality in every failed relationship I've ever had, I've never once felt a break-up was my fault or any kind of judgment on me as a person or a being. It's not that I was too self-centered, or too fat, or too crazy or too Catholic, it was always that I wasn't what the person who passed on me wanted. Just like every time I've dumped someone wasn't because they were bad people. They just weren't what I wanted. And we all need to push for what we want.
Happy people aren't happy because they ended up with the best in show, but because they ended up with someone whose crazy matches their own crazy; whose baggage be it heavy or light, colorful or bland, expensive or cheap, worn or new, matched their own.
I think God has some baggage. I believe his heart is scarred a million times from all the hurt. But he trusts in us, whether we deserve it or not. Maybe that's what love really is.
I've been told I make "Pollyanna look like a sarcastic bitch." But that is something I really love about myself. Maybe being so trusting will wear me down, fade the colors in my soul and dull the point of my whit, til I am naught but the stubby end of a chewed #2 pencil. Or maybe my "you have to be in it, to win it" strategy towards life will pick me the lucky numbers in the lottery of Love and Life.
Either way, I'm going to figure it out.
Trust me.
Sometimes the water is dirty. Sometimes the sky is cloudy. Sometimes the butts belong to mannequins, devoid of interesting scent. Sometimes people are assholes.
But people need people.
I am a trusting person. I am one of the most upbeat, positive and optimistic people you will ever meet. I am curious. I always want to see the other side of a thing. I am always thinking. I believe in love.
I have an awesome, but very demanding, job that allows me to talk to and get to know and invest in very interesting, questioning, young men and women in need of a hand-up or a little bit of perspective. I am needed every day. It is a great thing to be needed; to be respected and relied upon.
But one thing about the nature of my job, I run Residence Life for Texas A&M's campus in Galveston, is that I very often get called upon to manage the very best or worst things that happen on this campus. It's a game of minimum's and maximums. It's a series of hills and valleys.
I have my trust violated often, my hopes dashed regularly, and my love goes unrequited as often as not. I tend to live and die with the successes and failures of my students... which means I get hurt a lot.
When I love, I tend to go to the hilt, head over heels, unquestionably on tilt, like Quixote towards his Giants.
Why? Why do we do this? Why did God make me this way?
One of the big questions I hope I get answered in the big "day-after-crossword puzzle-check-to-see-how-many-you-got-right" session with St. Peter or God or Buddha or whomever when I die is "what does God mean when he said he created us in 'his own image'?" Did he make us sentient like him? Did me mean it literally? That there's some really old dude out in space somewhere, white robes and flowing white beard?
I think it makes most sense to look at the common things about us all. And I think the answer is obvious. We all need love. Even God, in his omnipotence and wisdom, wasn't complete without others to love and love him in return.
So maybe my trusting nature is a good thing. Maybe being a Pollyanna ain't so bad.
I trust that I will love. I trust that I will get hurt. I trust that I will have my heart broken. But I also trust that there are some lessons that only experience can teach me. I know that when the skin is cut or a bone is broken, scars form to strengthen the cut and the break, leaving the mend even stronger than it was previously.
So I trust that my heart, when broken, will heal stronger at the break.
When I hear about a student who doesn't like me, I usually just assume its because they really don't know me. I'm a pretty likable guy.
Though I am the only commonality in every failed relationship I've ever had, I've never once felt a break-up was my fault or any kind of judgment on me as a person or a being. It's not that I was too self-centered, or too fat, or too crazy or too Catholic, it was always that I wasn't what the person who passed on me wanted. Just like every time I've dumped someone wasn't because they were bad people. They just weren't what I wanted. And we all need to push for what we want.
Happy people aren't happy because they ended up with the best in show, but because they ended up with someone whose crazy matches their own crazy; whose baggage be it heavy or light, colorful or bland, expensive or cheap, worn or new, matched their own.
I think God has some baggage. I believe his heart is scarred a million times from all the hurt. But he trusts in us, whether we deserve it or not. Maybe that's what love really is.
I've been told I make "Pollyanna look like a sarcastic bitch." But that is something I really love about myself. Maybe being so trusting will wear me down, fade the colors in my soul and dull the point of my whit, til I am naught but the stubby end of a chewed #2 pencil. Or maybe my "you have to be in it, to win it" strategy towards life will pick me the lucky numbers in the lottery of Love and Life.
Either way, I'm going to figure it out.
Trust me.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Plus by Minus.
"Lent is a time for you to punch yourself in the crotch every time you get a boner." - SeaNomad
This was a quote one of my favorite people in the world, and you know, after a week of Lent, I don't think she is completely off base.
I love Lent. I feel it helps me, more than any season in the Church's calendar, to grow within my relationship with my God. Something I'll never completely understand.
But I love talking about Lent even more. Especially to non-believers, it's a crazy time of self-flagellation, self-denial and religious pratter. And I get that. Give up meat one day a week? WTF? With all the trendy vegan places everywhere, that's as arbitrary as it is sacrificial. Giving something up? "I give up giving stuff up... har-har-har." And abstaining? Don't even get me started on that.
But still, I love Lent. Why?
To me, Lent is Spring-Training for the year. Lent is when we clear the slate and start working on the basics. Giving up meat on Fridays is the spiritual equivalent of wind sprints. During this Spring Training, is when we work on our swing for the new year. It's when we take an honest look at our game film from the last year, look for holes in our swing and try, through repetition-repetition-repetition-repetition to work out the kinks.
Having trouble hitting that inside curve? Work on opening your stance.
Falling for the high heat? Work on shortening up your swing to give you more time to decide on the pitch.
So it goes with Lent.
There's a lot that more that goes into the season: increased prayer, maintaining a sense of introspection (did you know Catholics are not to say "hallelujah" during Lent?) and much more doctrinal minutiae. But I think my favorite part of Lent comes in the choosing one item or activity to remove from your life.
On its face it smacks of capricious self-flagellation. But me say its a device that renders the whole more than the sum of its parts. Let me explain.
What is it to be a Christian or a member of any other religion? When you really break it down from a purely objective standpoint, being a Christian means living your life as closely as you can to a sort of code of Christian code of conduct. There is a line to be walked. Things you do that you wouldn't normally, and things that you don't that you usually would.
Well giving up something during the Lenten season is sort of like that in a a 47 day period in preparation for the rest of the year. By removing something from your life that you would usually do and enjoy, you're supposed to examine the effect of the vacuum of that thing in your life.
Giving up coffee, getting past the headaches, twitchiness, irritability and grouchiness created by the absense of that, one is free to imagine what they will drink instead. What will they discuss things over? What will they spend $4 a day on? What will they get on their breaks?
Its not the act of giving something up that matters, its what you with the space left by it that matters. It doesn't do you any good to let go of hating your father if you only replace it with hatred for your brother. Lent is a time for us to work out those kinks.
Lent is a time of addition by subraction. We grow by examining the space left by what we've lost.
So yeah maybe it's not exactly punching yourself in the crotch whenever you get a boner at all.
I just thought it was a funny quote.
This was a quote one of my favorite people in the world, and you know, after a week of Lent, I don't think she is completely off base.
I love Lent. I feel it helps me, more than any season in the Church's calendar, to grow within my relationship with my God. Something I'll never completely understand.
But I love talking about Lent even more. Especially to non-believers, it's a crazy time of self-flagellation, self-denial and religious pratter. And I get that. Give up meat one day a week? WTF? With all the trendy vegan places everywhere, that's as arbitrary as it is sacrificial. Giving something up? "I give up giving stuff up... har-har-har." And abstaining? Don't even get me started on that.
But still, I love Lent. Why?
To me, Lent is Spring-Training for the year. Lent is when we clear the slate and start working on the basics. Giving up meat on Fridays is the spiritual equivalent of wind sprints. During this Spring Training, is when we work on our swing for the new year. It's when we take an honest look at our game film from the last year, look for holes in our swing and try, through repetition-repetition-repetition-repetition to work out the kinks.
Having trouble hitting that inside curve? Work on opening your stance.
Falling for the high heat? Work on shortening up your swing to give you more time to decide on the pitch.
So it goes with Lent.
There's a lot that more that goes into the season: increased prayer, maintaining a sense of introspection (did you know Catholics are not to say "hallelujah" during Lent?) and much more doctrinal minutiae. But I think my favorite part of Lent comes in the choosing one item or activity to remove from your life.
On its face it smacks of capricious self-flagellation. But me say its a device that renders the whole more than the sum of its parts. Let me explain.
What is it to be a Christian or a member of any other religion? When you really break it down from a purely objective standpoint, being a Christian means living your life as closely as you can to a sort of code of Christian code of conduct. There is a line to be walked. Things you do that you wouldn't normally, and things that you don't that you usually would.
Well giving up something during the Lenten season is sort of like that in a a 47 day period in preparation for the rest of the year. By removing something from your life that you would usually do and enjoy, you're supposed to examine the effect of the vacuum of that thing in your life.
Giving up coffee, getting past the headaches, twitchiness, irritability and grouchiness created by the absense of that, one is free to imagine what they will drink instead. What will they discuss things over? What will they spend $4 a day on? What will they get on their breaks?
Its not the act of giving something up that matters, its what you with the space left by it that matters. It doesn't do you any good to let go of hating your father if you only replace it with hatred for your brother. Lent is a time for us to work out those kinks.
Lent is a time of addition by subraction. We grow by examining the space left by what we've lost.
So yeah maybe it's not exactly punching yourself in the crotch whenever you get a boner at all.
I just thought it was a funny quote.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Message in a bottle
What do we do when the lights are too bright and the sirens are too loud?
We close our eyes and plug our ears.
I've stopped writing over the last 6 months because I think I've been the guy struggling so hard down that last mile of a marathon he doesn't realize his running shorts split 100 yards ago, and... well... let's just say he'll bring a whole new definition to "flopping across the finish line."
Yeah, suck that image in...
I love my job. College can be such a transformative time for someone primed for learning. It truly is the crossroads in many of our lives. And I feel like I'm the guy whose job it is to hand out maps and put up the "dead end" signs. It's so fulfilling and I'm damn good at it.
It has its ups and downs, just like any job. I have to be the creepy old guy living on campus... on purpose. But I do get really really cheap rent. Most of the people I know are 18. But then again I never have to look far for someone to play a wicked game of Wii.
Worst thing about living on campus? Having to hear from every asshole douche I meet "heh-heh... I bet you tag all those 18 year-old girls... heh-heh." "No, [ya schmuck], I aim for older chicks. They're more desperate and less clingy."
But the best part of my job is feeling that what I'm doing is important. If it was always easy, they wouldn't have to pay me. -Which they technically do.
But the last 6 months...
The Wednesday before the storm, our campus closed at 5pm and evacuated up to College Station for Hurricaine Ike. They needed a staff member to move up there so I, being the young, single, unattached one, volunteered. I was happy to. I would have been insulted if they would have let anyone else. It was really cool to go up to College Station with its sprawling campus and enormous staff, navigate the beaurocracy and hand out my dusty business cards and arrange meal plans for our students evacuated up there.
But after we made the full move and the storm hit, things changed. We had to move 1200+ students into an already saturated college town bursting at the seams from its own 48,000 students. We had to do things that had only been talked about in theory, much less ever attempted anywhere in the history of the world.
Dealing with limited resources varying in quality to a greater number of people with limited guidance is something to see. It's heartbreaking. I watched normally rational, giving and generous people turn into starving Hyenas fighting over a fresh carcass, gorging themselves while others go hungry. Heartbreaking.
While in College Station, I was daily: lied to, mislead, chewed out, yelled at, demeaned, forced to see every weakness exposed, corrected constantly (thank-God), shut off from family and friends and all with little thanks. It was pretty emotionally bruising.
On top of it all, friends and new family left and right had lost their homes, nearly all their posessions, and dealing with loss. And I was shut off. We were all working 12-14 hour days, 5-6 days a week because if we didn't, someone might go without a meal plan or a warm bed or internet access required for homework.
And I was cut off from them. I shut off my emotions. I couldn't let myself feel hurt because I didn't lose anything. Not really. How dare I complain about loss or stress when my home is fine and I didn't lose a thing when Mikey and Addrienne got 4 feet of water, lost the deck they had just christened two months earlier and had the roof of their kick-ass shop cave in? How dare I complain about stress when Will lost thousands -literally- THOUSANDS of comic books when his storage unit was flooded?
No. I sucked it up.
But anyone who has ever tried to hold it in when you have to pee knows that if you let it out even a little, the dam will break. So I held it in.
I plugged my ears and I shut my eyes.
We were all going on adrenaline, keeping our smiles on, living for anything that can cheer us up. Rejoicing at every small victory. But you can only go on adrenline for so long. Eventually you have to pay the piper.
And that, gentle readers, is where I'm at. I've found my leaping out of bed to go to work in the mornings has turned to hitting the "snooze" for an hour and a half. Things that would have never have gotten to me before all of a sudden require "state of the union" -type adresses.
I'm quicker to anger that's slower and slower to recede. I get frustrated at the smallest things and I find it easier and easier to justify to myself that skipping work is okay. Its getting harder and harder to invest in anyone new. And that's what I've always done best.
And, perhaps scariest of all, its been harder and harder for me to get deep with myself and contemplate my thoughts, motiviations and feelings. My self-awareness has been slipping because its been neglected; a muscle atrophied.
So I'm turning a leaf. I'm pushing on. I'm letting go.
Can anyone spare a dime? Because I definitely can use some change.
Things have got to change.
We close our eyes and plug our ears.
I've stopped writing over the last 6 months because I think I've been the guy struggling so hard down that last mile of a marathon he doesn't realize his running shorts split 100 yards ago, and... well... let's just say he'll bring a whole new definition to "flopping across the finish line."
Yeah, suck that image in...
I love my job. College can be such a transformative time for someone primed for learning. It truly is the crossroads in many of our lives. And I feel like I'm the guy whose job it is to hand out maps and put up the "dead end" signs. It's so fulfilling and I'm damn good at it.
It has its ups and downs, just like any job. I have to be the creepy old guy living on campus... on purpose. But I do get really really cheap rent. Most of the people I know are 18. But then again I never have to look far for someone to play a wicked game of Wii.
Worst thing about living on campus? Having to hear from every asshole douche I meet "heh-heh... I bet you tag all those 18 year-old girls... heh-heh." "No, [ya schmuck], I aim for older chicks. They're more desperate and less clingy."
But the best part of my job is feeling that what I'm doing is important. If it was always easy, they wouldn't have to pay me. -Which they technically do.
But the last 6 months...
The Wednesday before the storm, our campus closed at 5pm and evacuated up to College Station for Hurricaine Ike. They needed a staff member to move up there so I, being the young, single, unattached one, volunteered. I was happy to. I would have been insulted if they would have let anyone else. It was really cool to go up to College Station with its sprawling campus and enormous staff, navigate the beaurocracy and hand out my dusty business cards and arrange meal plans for our students evacuated up there.
But after we made the full move and the storm hit, things changed. We had to move 1200+ students into an already saturated college town bursting at the seams from its own 48,000 students. We had to do things that had only been talked about in theory, much less ever attempted anywhere in the history of the world.
Dealing with limited resources varying in quality to a greater number of people with limited guidance is something to see. It's heartbreaking. I watched normally rational, giving and generous people turn into starving Hyenas fighting over a fresh carcass, gorging themselves while others go hungry. Heartbreaking.
While in College Station, I was daily: lied to, mislead, chewed out, yelled at, demeaned, forced to see every weakness exposed, corrected constantly (thank-God), shut off from family and friends and all with little thanks. It was pretty emotionally bruising.
On top of it all, friends and new family left and right had lost their homes, nearly all their posessions, and dealing with loss. And I was shut off. We were all working 12-14 hour days, 5-6 days a week because if we didn't, someone might go without a meal plan or a warm bed or internet access required for homework.
And I was cut off from them. I shut off my emotions. I couldn't let myself feel hurt because I didn't lose anything. Not really. How dare I complain about loss or stress when my home is fine and I didn't lose a thing when Mikey and Addrienne got 4 feet of water, lost the deck they had just christened two months earlier and had the roof of their kick-ass shop cave in? How dare I complain about stress when Will lost thousands -literally- THOUSANDS of comic books when his storage unit was flooded?
No. I sucked it up.
But anyone who has ever tried to hold it in when you have to pee knows that if you let it out even a little, the dam will break. So I held it in.
I plugged my ears and I shut my eyes.
We were all going on adrenaline, keeping our smiles on, living for anything that can cheer us up. Rejoicing at every small victory. But you can only go on adrenline for so long. Eventually you have to pay the piper.
And that, gentle readers, is where I'm at. I've found my leaping out of bed to go to work in the mornings has turned to hitting the "snooze" for an hour and a half. Things that would have never have gotten to me before all of a sudden require "state of the union" -type adresses.
I'm quicker to anger that's slower and slower to recede. I get frustrated at the smallest things and I find it easier and easier to justify to myself that skipping work is okay. Its getting harder and harder to invest in anyone new. And that's what I've always done best.
And, perhaps scariest of all, its been harder and harder for me to get deep with myself and contemplate my thoughts, motiviations and feelings. My self-awareness has been slipping because its been neglected; a muscle atrophied.
So I'm turning a leaf. I'm pushing on. I'm letting go.
Can anyone spare a dime? Because I definitely can use some change.
Things have got to change.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
If I don't have time for my own words, maybe I can find the time for others?
I'm blatantly stealing this post from someone else. But I thought it was pretty cute. Maybe if I give Jessica from www.farmfreshiowa.blogspot.com props she won't mind it. Check it out.
24 THINGS ABOUT TO BECOME EXTINCT IN AMERICA
http://farmfreshiowa.blogspot.com/2009/01/24-things-about-to-become-extinct-in.html
24. Yellow Pages This year will be pivotal for the global Yellow Pages industry. Much like newspapers, print Yellow Pages will continue to bleed dollars to their various digital counterparts, from Internet Yellow Pages (IYPs), to local search engines and combination search/listing services like Reach Local and Yodle Factors like an acceleration of the print 'fade rate' and the looming recession will contribute to the onslaught. One research firm predicts the falloff in usage of newspapers and print Yellow Pages could even reach 10% this year -- much higher than the 2%-3% fade rate seen in past years.
23. Classified Ads The Internet has made so many things obsolete that newspaper classified ads might sound like just another trivial item on a long list. But this is one of those harbingers of the future that could signal the end of civilization as we know it. The argument is that if newspaper classifieds are replaced by free online listings at sites like Craigslist.org and Google Base, then newspapers are not far behind them.
22. Movie Rental Stores While Netflix is looking up at the moment, Blockbuster keeps closing store locations by the hundreds. It still has about 6,000 left across the world, but those keep dwindling and the stock is down considerably in 2008, especially since the company gave up a quest of Circuit City . Movie Gallery, which owned the Hollywood Video brand, closed up shop earlier this year. Countless small video chains and mom-and-po p stores have given up th e ghost already.
21. Dial-up Internet Access Dial-up connections have fallen from 40% in 2001 to 10% in 2008. The combination of an infrastructure to accommodate affordable high speed Internet connections and the disappearing home phone have all but pounded the final nail in the coffin of dial-up Internet access.
20. Phone Landlines According to a survey from the National Center for Health Statistics, at the end of 2007, nearly one in six homes was cell-only and, of those homes that had landlines, one in eight only received calls on their cells.
19. Chesapeake Bay Blue Crabs Maryland 's icon, the blue crab, has been fading away in Chesapeake Bay . Last year Maryland saw the lowest harvest (22 million pounds) since 1945. Just four decades ago the bay produced 96 million pounds. The population is down 70% since 1990, when they first did a formal count. There are only about 120 million crabs in the bay and they think they need 200 million for a sustainable population. Overfishing, pollution, invasive species and global warming get the blame.
18. VCRs For the better part of three decades, the VCR was a best-seller and staple in every American household until being completely decimated by the DVD, and now the Digital Video Recorder (DVR). In fact, the only remnants of the VHS age at your local Wal-Mart or Radio Shack are blank VHS tapes these days. Pre-recorded VHS tapes are largely gone and VHS decks are practically nowhere to be found. They served us so well.
17. Ash Trees In the late 1990s, a pretty, iridescent green species of beetle, now known as the emerald ash borer, hitched a ride to North America with ash wood products imported from eastern Asia . In less than a decade, i ts larvae have killed millions of trees in the Midwest, and continue to spread. They've killed more than 30 million ash trees in southeastern Michigan alone, with tens of millions more lost in Ohio and Indiana . More than 7.5 billion ash trees are currently at risk.
16. Ham Radio Amateur radio operators enjoy personal (and often worldwide) wireless communications with each other and are able to support their communities with emergency and disaster communications if necessary, while increasing their personal knowledge of electronics and radio theory. However, proliferation of the Internet and its popularity among youth has caused the decline of amateur radio. In the past five years alone, the number of people holding active ham radio licenses has dropped by 50,000, even though Morse Code is no longer a requirement.
15. The Swimming Hole Thanks to our litigious society, swimming holes are becoming a thing of the past. '20/20' reports that swimming hole owners, like Robert Every in High Falls, N.Y., are shutting them down out of worry that if someone gets hurt they'll sue. And that's exactly what happened in Seattle . The city of Bellingham was sued by Katie Hofstetter who was paralyzed in a fall at a popular swimming hole in Whatcom Falls Park . As injuries occur and lawsuits follow, expect more swimming holes to post 'Keep out!' signs.
14. Answering Machines The increasing disappearance of answering machines is directly tied to No 20 our list -- the decline of landlines. According to USA Today, the number of homes that only use cell phones jumped 159% between 2004 and 2007. It has been particularly bad in New York ; since 2000, landline usage has dropped 55%. It's logical that as cell phones rise, many of them replacing traditional landlines, that there will be fewer answering machines.
13 . Cameras That Use Film It doesn't require a statistician to prove the rapid disappearance of the film camera in America . Just look to companies like Nikon, the professional's choice for quality camera equipment. In 2006, it announced that it would stop making film cameras, pointing to the shrinking market -- only 3% of its sales in 2005, compared to 75% of sales from digital cameras and equipment.
12. Incandescent Bulbs Before a few years ago, the standard 60-watt (or, yikes, 100-watt) bulb was the mainstay of every U.S. home. With the green movement and all-things-sustainable-energy crowd, the Compact Fluorescent Lightbulb (CFL) is largely replacing the older, Edison-era incandescent bulb. The EPA reports that 2007 sales for Energy Star CFLs nearly doubled from 2006, and these sales accounted for approximately 20 percent of the U.S. light bulb market. And according to USA Toda y, a new energy bill plans to phase out incandescent bulbs in the next four to 12 years.
11. Stand-Alone Bowling Alleys BowlingBalls.US claims there are still 60 million Americans who bowl at least once a year, but many are not bowling in stand-alone bowling alleys. Today most new bowling alleys are part of facilities for all types or recreation including laser tag, go-karts, bumper cars, video game arcades, climbing walls and glow miniature golf. Bowling lanes also have been added to many non-traditional venues such as adult communities, hotels and resorts, and gambling casinos.
10. The Milkman According to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, in 1950, over half of the milk delivered was to the home in quart bottles, by 1963, it was about a third and by 2001, it represented only 0 .4% percent. Nowadays most milk is sold th rough supermarkets in gallon jugs. The steady decline in home-delivered milk is blamed, of course, on the rise of the supermarket, better home refrigeration and longer-lasting milk. Although some milkmen still make the rounds in pockets of the U.S. , they are certainly a dying breed.
9 Hand-Written Letters In 2006, the Radicati Group estimated that, worldwide, 183 billion e-mails were sent each day. Two million each second. By November of 2007, an estimated 3.3 billion Earthlings owned cell phones, and 80% of the world's population had access to cell phone coverage. In 2004, half-a-trillion text messages were sent, and the number has no doubt increased exponentially since then. So where amongst this gorge of gabble is there room for the elegant, polite hand-written letter?
8. Wild Horses ; It is estimated that 100 years ago, as many as two million horses were roaming free within the United States . In 2001, National Geographic News estimated that the wild horse population had decreased to about 50,000 head. Currently, the National Wild Horse and Burro Advisory board states that there are 32,000 free roaming horses in ten Western states, with half of them residing in Nevada . The Bureau of Land Management is seeking to reduce the total number of free range horses to 27,000, possibly by selective euthanasia.
7. Personal Checks According to an American Bankers Assoc. report, a net 23% of consumers plan to decrease their use of checks over the next two years, while a net 14% plan to increase their use of PIN debit. Bill payment remains the last stronghold of paper-based pa yments -- for the time being. Checks continue to be the most commonly used bill payment method, with 71% of c onsumers paying at least one recurring bill per month by writing a check. However, on a bill-by-bill basis, checks account for only 49% of consumers' recurring bill payments (down from 72% in 2001 and 60% in 2003).
6. Drive-in Theaters During the peak in 1958, there were more than 4,000 drive-in theaters in this country, but in 2007 only 405 drive-ins were still operating. Exactly zero new drive-ins have been built since 2005. Only one reopened in 2005 and five reopened in 2006, so there isn't much of a movement toward reviving the closed ones.
5 Mumps & Measles Despite what's been in the news lately, the measles and mumps actually, truly are disappearing from the United States . In 1964, 212,000 cases of mumps were reported in the U.S. By 1983, this figure had dropped to 3,000, thanks to a vigorous vaccination program. Prior to the introduction of the measles vaccine, approximately half a million cases of measles were reported in the U.S. annually, resulting in 450 deaths. In 2005, only 66 cases were recorded.
4. Honey Bees Perhaps nothing on our list of disappearing America is so dire; plummeting so enormously; and so necessary to the survival of our food supply as the honey bee. Very scary. 'Colony Collapse Disorder,' or CCD, has spread throughout the U.S and Europe over the past few years, wiping out 50% to 90% of the c olonies of many beekeepers -- and along with it, their livelihood.
3. News Magazines and TV News While the TV evening newscasts haven't gone anywhere over the last several decades, their audiences have. In 1984, in a story about the diminishing returns of the evening news, the New York Times reported that all three network evening-news programs combined had only 40.9 million viewers. Fast forward to 2008, and what they have today is half that.
2. Analog TV According to the Consumer Electronics Association, 85% of homes in the U.S. get their television programming through cable or satellite providers. For the remaining 15% -- or 13 million individuals -- who are using rabbit ears or a large outdoor antenna to get their local stations, change is in the air. If you are one of these people you'l l need to get a new TV or a converter box in order to get the new stations which will only be broadcast in digital.
1. The Family Farm Since the 1930s, the number of family farms has been declining rapidly. According to the USDA, 5.3 million farms dotted the nation in 1950, but this number had declined to 2.1 million by the 2003 farm census (data from the 2007 census hasn't yet been published). Ninety-one percent of the U.S.farms are small family farms.
Pack rats win the race?
Found this and thought it was incredible.
H's & K's,
Neil Edward Golemo
Bernice Gallego sat down one day this summer, as she does pretty much every day, and began listing items on eBay.
H's & K's,
Neil Edward Golemo
courant.com/features/hc-webbaseballcard.artjan07,0,2557404.story
Courant.com
Surprise Find: A 139-Year-Old Baseball Card
By Mike Osegueda
McClatchy Newspapers
January 7, 2009
FRESNO, Calif.
She dug into a box and pulled out a baseball card. She stopped for a moment and admired the picture. "Red Stocking B.B. Club of Cincinnati," the card said, under a sepia tone photo of 10 men with their socks pulled up to their knees. The card itself was dirty and wrinkled in a few places.
It was definitely old, Gallego thought. As a collector and seller, it's her job to spot old items that might have value today, to find the gems among the junk.
It's what Bernice, 72, and her husband Al Gallego, 80, have been doing since 1974 at Collectique, their antiques store in the Fresno, Calif., Tower District full of old jukeboxes, slot machines and records.
This card, she figured, was worth selling on eBay.
She did what she does with most items: Took a picture, wrote a description and put it up for auction. She put a $10 price tag on it, deciding against $15 because it would have cost her an extra 20 cents.
Later that night she got a few odd inquiries — someone wanting to know whether the card was authentic, someone wanting her to end the auction and sell him the card immediately.
Hmm, she thought, this could be something special. It could be worth $50, or even $100.
Or, as Bernice Gallego came to find out in the following weeks, it could be worth a lot more.
The card is actually 139 years old. It, and a handful of others like it, are considered the first baseball cards. Sports card collectors call the find "extremely rare" and estimate the card could fetch five, or perhaps, six figures at auction.
And Bernice was worried about 20 cents.
Instead, just like that, she is the least likely protagonist ever for a rare-baseball card story.
"I didn't even know baseball existed that far back," Gallego says, between puffs on her cigarette. "I don't think that I've ever been to a baseball game."
Spooked with all the questions she was getting on eBay, she picked up the phone at 9:30 p.m. that night and called her good friend, George Huddleston, and asked his opinion.
"I never make phone calls after 8 o'clock at night," Gallego says. "My mother taught me never to do things like that."
Huddleston's answer was simple: End the auction now. Figure out what you have and what it's worth before selling it. Her husband Al agreed: "Get this thing off the Internet."
So the next morning — with no bids yet on the card — she canceled the auction. She wanted to find out more about the card.
Huddleston directed Gallego to a friend who would know what to do: Rick Mirigian, a local concert promoter and card trader who sold a rare basketball card in 2004 for $62,100.
In the meantime, Gallego didn't want the card to get lost, so she put it in a sandwich bag and push-pinned it to her laundry room wall.
"If it fell off the wall, the cat would have ate it," Gallego says. "Well, or the dog."
When she met with Mirigian she found out what the card was — an 1869 advertisement with a picture of the first professional baseball team, the Cincinnati Red Stockings.
"When I came to meet her and she took it out of a sandwich Baggie and she was smoking a cigarette, I almost fainted," Mirigian says.
"They've uncovered a piece of history that few people will ever be able to imagine or comprehend. And it comes out of Fresno," Mirigian says. "That card is history. It's like unearthing a Mona Lisa or a Picasso."
Mirigian's first question to Bernice was what you might expect: Where did you get this?
To this day, the details are sketchy.
"We really don't know where we got it," Gallego says. "We don't even know how long we owned this thing."
Makes sense when you consider the Gallegos are a couple of pack-rats who have been married 45 years and whose antique store overflows into their house.
The theory is that the card came out of a storage space they bought a few years back. It's not uncommon in their line of work to buy the entire contents of storage units, usually from a relative of a recently deceased person, for around $200.
That's what the Gallegos think happened here.
Before this, the Gallegos' biggest eBay sale was a John F. Kennedy autograph from 1939 that brought in $1,000.
Because baseball cards were new to them, Mirigian laid out a plan for the Gallegos. They had to get the card authenticated, store it in something better than a plastic bag and put it in a safe place.
So the Gallegos headed south to Los Angeles, bound for the headquarters of PSA, the leading sports card grading and authenticating company, which has graded 12 million items since 1991.
Most people mail their cards off to PSA. The Gallegos decided that for their almost 140-year-old card, they'd rather drive it down. They picked the one day a month that PSA opens its doors to the public, dropped the card off at 9 a.m. and picked it up at 3 p.m., encapsulated and authenticated.
It was all a little much for a dumbstruck Bernice who still says, "It's a little card I found in a bunch of stuff."
They chose not to have the card graded, the process of judging the mintness on a 1-10 scale. It's PSA's most popular service, but in the case of this card, being real and in one piece is the most important thing.
"It does have some pretty significant discoloration and creasing," says Joe Orlando, the president of PSA. "The good news is that the sepia tone photo that is mounted on the front is, relatively speaking, unscathed. The clarity of the photo is still there. If this were graded, it would be near the bottom. But even for a card that low on the grading scale, it does have some eye appeal to it. It still presents fairly well and that's the more important thing."
And perhaps even more important is the story it tells.
Before the Cincinnati Red Stockings there were no professional baseball teams.
Formed in 1868, the team set the foundation for what we know today as Major League Baseball.
"To borrow a term from rock 'n' roll, they were a kind of supergroup," says Tim Wiles, the director of research at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y.
"They brought in some of the best baseball players from around the country. They went around and challenged all comers. They barnstormed around the country and were undefeated."
The Red Stockings won games by as many as 30, 40 and 50 runs, Wiles says.
"They were kind of an all-star team before that concept really existed," he says. "In 1871, what the Red Stockings started would evolve into the first baseball league and the first sports league."
In 1869, the team's picture ended up on the front of a card advertising Peck & Snyder, a company that sold baseball equipment. Unlike modern baseball cards, the Peck & Snyder card was larger and focused on the whole team, not individual players.
"It really provides a time capsule for the game," says Orlando of PSA. "You look at the picture and the guys are wearing boots. They don't use gloves at that point. The classic uniforms. It was a completely different game at that time."
To Bernice — who, let's remember, has never been to a baseball game — it was the history, not the sport that meant something.
"Because I love history, the thing that really got to me was that it's a photo, a real photo of real people, basically taken right after the Civil War," Gallego says. "That's what got to me. I don't know much about them. Who are they? What are they thinking? Those kind of question go through my mind."
Next is the big question: How much is this card worth?
Mirigian says he expects six figures.
The Gallegos are content to put it on eBay and "let it fly."
Orlando offers: "The last one that I'm aware, it sold about a year to a year and a half ago and it sold for well into five figures. You have to let the market decide what it's worth when you're dealing with something this scarce, because there's just not the market history to determine it."
But who would pay that kind of money for a baseball card?
"A lot of people use sports memorabilia and sports cards as conversation pieces," Orlando says. "And what a conversation piece this is."
That could mean anybody from a businessman who's a baseball fan to a baseball executive. That's the kind of stuff that Mirigian and Gallego sit around talking about.
"You might have George Steinbrenner wanting to buy this," Mirigian told her one day, referring to the long time New York Yankees owner.
"Who's George Steinberg?" she asked.
Plans are to put the card back on eBay, though the auction is expected to draw a little more attention this time, thanks to Mirigian, who is already plotting marketing schemes and sales tactics. He'll get a percentage of the sale for his part.
"I find it so hard to believe that this little card is worth so much," Bernice says. "Neither one of us count chickens before they hatch. We don't want to expect the world out of this find. It's good enough that we've found it, and have been able to enjoy it and share it with a few of our friends. That for us is more of where it's at."
It's not the first time Bernice has unexpectedly walked into a windfall. She hit a $250,000 jackpot playing quarter slots at Harrah's in Lake Tahoe.
"She's a very lucky lady," Al Gallego says.
That was 10 years ago. Now this. Next? Who knows.
"We gotta live at least another 10 years for the next one," Bernice says.
Bernice Gallego sat down one day this summer, as she does pretty much every day, and began listing items on eBay.
Copyright © 2009, The Hartford Courant
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
The Four Chambers of a Home
Thanksgiving is, perhaps, my favorite holiday of the year. And I love holidays! I love pretty much everything about them.
I love the mixed bag of gifts that is a family get-togethers. The uncouth cousins. The mothers who try too hard. The dad's who don't try at all. The uncles that get drunk. The tee-totaling aunts who try to make up for the drunkeness by being completely lacking in a sense of humor.
I honestly love it all.
Holidays are really important to me. They're the spice in the meat and potatoes of the year. They are the moments in our grinds where we stop and, for whatever reason, we take time to appreciate that which means most to us. Family. The reasons we work and grind and push and pull.
In the last 5 years, I've spent Thanksgiving in five different places. Five different families other than the one that raised me. Five different sets of drunk cousins and stuck-up brothers and crazy aunts and accommodating mothers and incontinent elderly family dogs, hovering with graying whiskers for the next piece of turkey or stuffing to fall from an overloaded plate to the floor.
Families are very sacred and real and utterly unchangeable (no matter how hard you try) type of things. So when a friend is willing to share that with someone else... its much like exposing yourself (unfortunate wording, but I liked it so much after I typed it I just kept it... you know what I meant anyway). You can't really lie about family. "Uncle Ted isn't a drunk, he's just had a stroke recently." Or "My cousin Andee isn't a bitch, she's just getting into character for a movie part... she's playing the lead in a sequel of 'Mommy Dearest'... no really!"
Like I said, these lies don't really work. And to be honest, we're usually so consigned to the ugly truths about it, that we don't even think to warn our friends. So when someone is willing to share that with you, expose their origins and lay their lives bare, it means a lot. And the fact that I've had 4 friends think highly enough of me share themselves like that... it means that either I'm doing something really right, I'm just REALLY pitiful.
I suspect its a little of column A and column B.
It hits me when I think about that. 5 years since I've had Thanksgiving at my Grandma's in Hamilton, Illinois. My back to the big picture window with a view of the Mississippi winding through the bluffs with Iowa beyond. I haven't enjoyed my favorite holiday with the family that made me love the day the most. I remember flying kites and having experiments with my Aunt Theresa and her friend, Jim... (and never wondering about them having one of the inexplicable and androgynous relationships I've ever seen).
It causes me to pause my typing mid-word to think about it.
I've been at the mercy of others for the last 5 years. I've been floating around for the last 5 years... maybe this explains a lot about me and where I am in life. I'm so desperate to put down roots. I had an amazing support system in Eric and Steve and Shiznit in Waco. Myles and my studies.
I'm really beginning to love and appreciate Galveston. I fought it. Then I gave in... and then I had to work at it. But my relationship with Galveston Island is strong. I have an amazing job with an even better group of co-workers and a boss that has become a dear friend and confidant. I have good friends in Brian and Kristen and Will. I'm getting to a place where I'm happy with my situation. Even after the fucking storm.
I had a really good time time this Thanksgiving with Amanda and her family. Her mother, Melinda is sweet as the day is long and bent over backwards to make me feel welcome. She tried her hardest to embarrass Amanda for Amanda's sake. Turns out Amanda was too big a wuss to really misbehave growing up. Amanda's father, Barry, is incredibly laid-back. Seriously an incredibly accommodating and guy. He's done as much to make me feel comfortable as anyone. I got to meet Amanda's brother, Tyler and his wife Shari. Really cool young couple. I'm guessing they've been married 2-3 years. They have a beautiful son, 10 month old Kane. Seriously, two of the biggest, most lovable brown eyes I've ever seen. And I'm a sucker for the eyes.
And Amanda. She was a pro about the whole thing. I'm not sure if she actually wanted me around but she was cool as hell. As she almost always is.
I'm really thankful for her influence in my life. She's more than my best friend. She's sort of a lifeline into the world at outside of mine. She's smart and strong and while I think we share a sense of humor, I don't know anyone who provides a better counter-point to my point of view of the world. She's really fun to hang out with. And I defy you to spend time with her without laughing.
Besides that, she's off-the-charts hot. That don't hurt none. Like I've said. I never punch my weight.
But back to the point. I talk all this mean game about how much I love it back home, but I know that if I were to go back, I would hardly be able to spend a week without wondering why I would ever bother stepping foot in the city's limits. And even so, I've only just gotten to the point where I'm interested in seeing anyone besides my family members when I do go back.
I guess what I'm saying is that home is where the four chambers of your heart is. Wherever my mom and dad live will be home. Whether that's in Illinois or El Paso or wherever they're talking about moving.
Wherever I can go and say my stupid jokes and get laughs and people telling me I'm not nearly as funny as I think I am, will be home. (so thanks, Amanda)
Wherever I can go and feel loved, and just as importantly, known, will always be home.
So home is where my heart is. And as long as it's with those who would hold a piece of it, maybe I don't need to worry so much about roots. I'm leaving cuttings of myself wherever I go!
Four chambers of a home. A heart indeed.
I love the mixed bag of gifts that is a family get-togethers. The uncouth cousins. The mothers who try too hard. The dad's who don't try at all. The uncles that get drunk. The tee-totaling aunts who try to make up for the drunkeness by being completely lacking in a sense of humor.
I honestly love it all.
Holidays are really important to me. They're the spice in the meat and potatoes of the year. They are the moments in our grinds where we stop and, for whatever reason, we take time to appreciate that which means most to us. Family. The reasons we work and grind and push and pull.
In the last 5 years, I've spent Thanksgiving in five different places. Five different families other than the one that raised me. Five different sets of drunk cousins and stuck-up brothers and crazy aunts and accommodating mothers and incontinent elderly family dogs, hovering with graying whiskers for the next piece of turkey or stuffing to fall from an overloaded plate to the floor.
Families are very sacred and real and utterly unchangeable (no matter how hard you try) type of things. So when a friend is willing to share that with someone else... its much like exposing yourself (unfortunate wording, but I liked it so much after I typed it I just kept it... you know what I meant anyway). You can't really lie about family. "Uncle Ted isn't a drunk, he's just had a stroke recently." Or "My cousin Andee isn't a bitch, she's just getting into character for a movie part... she's playing the lead in a sequel of 'Mommy Dearest'... no really!"
Like I said, these lies don't really work. And to be honest, we're usually so consigned to the ugly truths about it, that we don't even think to warn our friends. So when someone is willing to share that with you, expose their origins and lay their lives bare, it means a lot. And the fact that I've had 4 friends think highly enough of me share themselves like that... it means that either I'm doing something really right, I'm just REALLY pitiful.
I suspect its a little of column A and column B.
It hits me when I think about that. 5 years since I've had Thanksgiving at my Grandma's in Hamilton, Illinois. My back to the big picture window with a view of the Mississippi winding through the bluffs with Iowa beyond. I haven't enjoyed my favorite holiday with the family that made me love the day the most. I remember flying kites and having experiments with my Aunt Theresa and her friend, Jim... (and never wondering about them having one of the inexplicable and androgynous relationships I've ever seen).
It causes me to pause my typing mid-word to think about it.
I've been at the mercy of others for the last 5 years. I've been floating around for the last 5 years... maybe this explains a lot about me and where I am in life. I'm so desperate to put down roots. I had an amazing support system in Eric and Steve and Shiznit in Waco. Myles and my studies.
I'm really beginning to love and appreciate Galveston. I fought it. Then I gave in... and then I had to work at it. But my relationship with Galveston Island is strong. I have an amazing job with an even better group of co-workers and a boss that has become a dear friend and confidant. I have good friends in Brian and Kristen and Will. I'm getting to a place where I'm happy with my situation. Even after the fucking storm.
I had a really good time time this Thanksgiving with Amanda and her family. Her mother, Melinda is sweet as the day is long and bent over backwards to make me feel welcome. She tried her hardest to embarrass Amanda for Amanda's sake. Turns out Amanda was too big a wuss to really misbehave growing up. Amanda's father, Barry, is incredibly laid-back. Seriously an incredibly accommodating and guy. He's done as much to make me feel comfortable as anyone. I got to meet Amanda's brother, Tyler and his wife Shari. Really cool young couple. I'm guessing they've been married 2-3 years. They have a beautiful son, 10 month old Kane. Seriously, two of the biggest, most lovable brown eyes I've ever seen. And I'm a sucker for the eyes.
And Amanda. She was a pro about the whole thing. I'm not sure if she actually wanted me around but she was cool as hell. As she almost always is.
I'm really thankful for her influence in my life. She's more than my best friend. She's sort of a lifeline into the world at outside of mine. She's smart and strong and while I think we share a sense of humor, I don't know anyone who provides a better counter-point to my point of view of the world. She's really fun to hang out with. And I defy you to spend time with her without laughing.
Besides that, she's off-the-charts hot. That don't hurt none. Like I've said. I never punch my weight.
But back to the point. I talk all this mean game about how much I love it back home, but I know that if I were to go back, I would hardly be able to spend a week without wondering why I would ever bother stepping foot in the city's limits. And even so, I've only just gotten to the point where I'm interested in seeing anyone besides my family members when I do go back.
I guess what I'm saying is that home is where the four chambers of your heart is. Wherever my mom and dad live will be home. Whether that's in Illinois or El Paso or wherever they're talking about moving.
Wherever I can go and say my stupid jokes and get laughs and people telling me I'm not nearly as funny as I think I am, will be home. (so thanks, Amanda)
Wherever I can go and feel loved, and just as importantly, known, will always be home.
So home is where my heart is. And as long as it's with those who would hold a piece of it, maybe I don't need to worry so much about roots. I'm leaving cuttings of myself wherever I go!
Four chambers of a home. A heart indeed.
Monday, September 15, 2008
TAMUG news!
TO EVERYONE I TAGGED IN THIS NOTE -
Please share this information with your fellow Sea Aggies. Thank you!
Originally Posted 6:30 p.m., Sunday, September 14, 2008
The current situation: TAMUG officials were granted limited access to the Mitchell Campus on Pelican Island and the Fort Crockett campus on Sunday. Initial reports are that our campuses fared well during Hurricane Ike; however, we will be sending assessment teams of engineers and facility specialists from College Station to conduct a building-by-building analysis over the next two days. On the Mitchell Campus, there is some damage, but it appears to be repairable at this point.
We know that the roadway leading to the bridge to campus has eroded and is impassable at the current time. The roof to Mariner Hall has been partially damaged, as has the roof to the Sea Aggie Center. The academic buildings appear to have made it through the storm relatively unscathed, other than some broken glass. There is no evidence of the storm surge reaching these buildings.At Fort Crockett, one of the highest points on Galveston Island, we did not see any visible structural or water damage. We have not been able to access the Teichman campus as of Sunday afternoon.The key point to emphasize is that the City of Galveston’s infrastructure has been severely damaged, according to preliminary reports. This means that we are unsure as to when the island will have basic services such as electricity, water, sewer and telecommunications.
In addition, the approaches to the causeway from the mainland to Galveston Island have been compromised by debris. Public access is prohibited at this time.Our current plans:Our campus will remain closed throughout this week. Our next steps depend greatly upon the campus facility assessments, as well as the availability of basic services on Galveston Island.Be assured that the Aggie Spirit is alive and well, and we have begun implementing our contingency plan for the continuation of the fall semester at Texas A&M University in College Station. We will be able to share much more information about this implementation over the next two days.
The next update: Please continue to monitor www.tamug.edu for the latest official information from our administration. We are working to have our plans for the fall semester finalized by Wednesday, and provide several days’ notice for our faculty, staff and students.
Please share this information with your fellow Sea Aggies. Thank you!
Originally Posted 6:30 p.m., Sunday, September 14, 2008
The current situation: TAMUG officials were granted limited access to the Mitchell Campus on Pelican Island and the Fort Crockett campus on Sunday. Initial reports are that our campuses fared well during Hurricane Ike; however, we will be sending assessment teams of engineers and facility specialists from College Station to conduct a building-by-building analysis over the next two days. On the Mitchell Campus, there is some damage, but it appears to be repairable at this point.
We know that the roadway leading to the bridge to campus has eroded and is impassable at the current time. The roof to Mariner Hall has been partially damaged, as has the roof to the Sea Aggie Center. The academic buildings appear to have made it through the storm relatively unscathed, other than some broken glass. There is no evidence of the storm surge reaching these buildings.At Fort Crockett, one of the highest points on Galveston Island, we did not see any visible structural or water damage. We have not been able to access the Teichman campus as of Sunday afternoon.The key point to emphasize is that the City of Galveston’s infrastructure has been severely damaged, according to preliminary reports. This means that we are unsure as to when the island will have basic services such as electricity, water, sewer and telecommunications.
In addition, the approaches to the causeway from the mainland to Galveston Island have been compromised by debris. Public access is prohibited at this time.Our current plans:Our campus will remain closed throughout this week. Our next steps depend greatly upon the campus facility assessments, as well as the availability of basic services on Galveston Island.Be assured that the Aggie Spirit is alive and well, and we have begun implementing our contingency plan for the continuation of the fall semester at Texas A&M University in College Station. We will be able to share much more information about this implementation over the next two days.
The next update: Please continue to monitor www.tamug.edu for the latest official information from our administration. We are working to have our plans for the fall semester finalized by Wednesday, and provide several days’ notice for our faculty, staff and students.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
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."
"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.
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.
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
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
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...
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...
2nd lieutenant Benjamin Warren Golemo, 101st
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.
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 don’t care what Todd Sutherland says.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, November 27, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
So let her eat cake...
Today, my little sister leaves our fine nation of apple pie, football and “Don’t Tread on Me” for a land of Tart O’ Pomme, Joue au Foot and “I’m le tired…” It is a big deal. She’ll be on her own for really the first time in her life. I don’t believe she has ever been farther away than a day-trip from her parents… ever.
Elizabeth is, and always has been, the baby of the family. And with our clan, this came with its perks and its quirks.
For instance, I remember the tete a tete (a tete a tete)’s between the four of the Golemo children invariably resulting in having Beth always be the one to “butter-up” my father when we wanted to see a movie on a Friday night instead of “spending real time, damnit” at home playing Trivial Pursuit as a family. Yeah, dad, “real-cheap-time.”
As the youngest of 4 button-pushing children, Elizabeth was always more than just the “cute one.” She was a combo-plate of a full-size, interactive, babydoll, 11th man, lab-rat, and test-monkey.
Through taking advantage of her natural trust and adoration, Kate, Ben and I were all able to learn much about life and the human condition. We all took advantage of her naiveté (ah, the malleability of the young mind) and used her as a personal megaphone from one time to another. If we thought the actions of a certain family member, for instance, was askew but family politics (where hypocrisy is defined) demanded that we keep that particular opinion to ourselves, one needed only to make a well-worded observation in an authoritative voice within earshot of an always-eager-to-be-paid-attention-to Elizabeth, and then remember to act shocked when we hear the opinion how “Rachel has always been a slut when it comes to Ross” spew forth from the mouth of a 3-year-old.
They grow up so fast.
My sister has what could be the worst temper of anyone I’ve ever known; especially when it comes to showing violence. And upon a moment’s reflection, I don’t know that I am not at least partially responsible. I remember the three of us torturing her based on her inability to pronounce certain phrases such as “froon-ral” as opposed to “funeral.” “Froon-ral girl! Froonral girl!” we’d croon. My mother still tells stories about how my little sister would just simply make words up, when she couldn’t remember which one to use. For instance, “Steel Pag-na-doolian” starring Sally Field, Dolly Parton, Julia Roberts, Olympia Dukakis, etc. was a favorite movie of hers as a 4 year-old. “And why not?” my mother would defend.
But back to her temper, I remember once watching her stop -in mid-swing- and with narrowed eyes, coldly consider the hammer in her hands to muse which end (the claw or the head) would do more damage to the face of an older (handsomer) brother who just gave her a wet-willy.
I remember watching my father hold her with one arm and hold a spoon in one of her hands with his other arm and help her lip-sync Stevie Wonder to the entertainment of us all. So one can understand how strange it is to imagine my little sister living –more or less- on her own, in a country across an ocean (a big one, at that).
I don’t doubt her ability to make it on her own. Not at all. It just sorta snuck up on me. She turned 21 last month. When did this happen? I don’t know if I’m ready to stop seeing her in her First-Communion dress practicing converting the neighbor kids with Necco-wafers.
Elizabeth, just like all of my parent’s children, has never really resided in the real world. With her, it really is possible to make a living as a theatre major with a degree from a small school and tons of college debt. And you know, I’m not so sure that she’s wrong. The world is changed not by those who see things as they are, but as they could be.
One more story. I remember when I got the make-a-wish thingy and our family took the trip to Disney World and then up along the East Coast. “Our great family adventure.” Yes, I remember the dorky matching outfits we all wore “in case one of us got lost, we’d all know what everyone else was wearing.” I remember meeting Mickey and the smug look on my father’s face when he found a faster way to do anything.
But I also remember the one who had the most fun of us all, the one who made friends with every waitress or waiter or stockboy at every restaurant or store to which our horde went. I remember the one of us all who managed to make an impression upon every park-ranger and tour guide we met. It wasn’t the bald-headed kid on chemo. It wasn’t the sharp-witted older sister. And it wasn’t the always solemn and completely honest Bennie-hanna. It was the two-year old who had no fear and knew no strangers.
Bon chance, Elizabeth Erin Rose Golemo. I envy the hearts you’ll make a little bigger wherever you go.
Bon Voyage, and Bon chance!
Je t’aime.
Elizabeth is, and always has been, the baby of the family. And with our clan, this came with its perks and its quirks.
For instance, I remember the tete a tete (a tete a tete)’s between the four of the Golemo children invariably resulting in having Beth always be the one to “butter-up” my father when we wanted to see a movie on a Friday night instead of “spending real time, damnit” at home playing Trivial Pursuit as a family. Yeah, dad, “real-cheap-time.”
As the youngest of 4 button-pushing children, Elizabeth was always more than just the “cute one.” She was a combo-plate of a full-size, interactive, babydoll, 11th man, lab-rat, and test-monkey.
Through taking advantage of her natural trust and adoration, Kate, Ben and I were all able to learn much about life and the human condition. We all took advantage of her naiveté (ah, the malleability of the young mind) and used her as a personal megaphone from one time to another. If we thought the actions of a certain family member, for instance, was askew but family politics (where hypocrisy is defined) demanded that we keep that particular opinion to ourselves, one needed only to make a well-worded observation in an authoritative voice within earshot of an always-eager-to-be-paid-attention-to Elizabeth, and then remember to act shocked when we hear the opinion how “Rachel has always been a slut when it comes to Ross” spew forth from the mouth of a 3-year-old.
They grow up so fast.
My sister has what could be the worst temper of anyone I’ve ever known; especially when it comes to showing violence. And upon a moment’s reflection, I don’t know that I am not at least partially responsible. I remember the three of us torturing her based on her inability to pronounce certain phrases such as “froon-ral” as opposed to “funeral.” “Froon-ral girl! Froonral girl!” we’d croon. My mother still tells stories about how my little sister would just simply make words up, when she couldn’t remember which one to use. For instance, “Steel Pag-na-doolian” starring Sally Field, Dolly Parton, Julia Roberts, Olympia Dukakis, etc. was a favorite movie of hers as a 4 year-old. “And why not?” my mother would defend.
But back to her temper, I remember once watching her stop -in mid-swing- and with narrowed eyes, coldly consider the hammer in her hands to muse which end (the claw or the head) would do more damage to the face of an older (handsomer) brother who just gave her a wet-willy.
I remember watching my father hold her with one arm and hold a spoon in one of her hands with his other arm and help her lip-sync Stevie Wonder to the entertainment of us all. So one can understand how strange it is to imagine my little sister living –more or less- on her own, in a country across an ocean (a big one, at that).
I don’t doubt her ability to make it on her own. Not at all. It just sorta snuck up on me. She turned 21 last month. When did this happen? I don’t know if I’m ready to stop seeing her in her First-Communion dress practicing converting the neighbor kids with Necco-wafers.
Elizabeth, just like all of my parent’s children, has never really resided in the real world. With her, it really is possible to make a living as a theatre major with a degree from a small school and tons of college debt. And you know, I’m not so sure that she’s wrong. The world is changed not by those who see things as they are, but as they could be.
One more story. I remember when I got the make-a-wish thingy and our family took the trip to Disney World and then up along the East Coast. “Our great family adventure.” Yes, I remember the dorky matching outfits we all wore “in case one of us got lost, we’d all know what everyone else was wearing.” I remember meeting Mickey and the smug look on my father’s face when he found a faster way to do anything.
But I also remember the one who had the most fun of us all, the one who made friends with every waitress or waiter or stockboy at every restaurant or store to which our horde went. I remember the one of us all who managed to make an impression upon every park-ranger and tour guide we met. It wasn’t the bald-headed kid on chemo. It wasn’t the sharp-witted older sister. And it wasn’t the always solemn and completely honest Bennie-hanna. It was the two-year old who had no fear and knew no strangers.
Bon chance, Elizabeth Erin Rose Golemo. I envy the hearts you’ll make a little bigger wherever you go.
Bon Voyage, and Bon chance!
Je t’aime.
Friday, September 08, 2006
40 years of Awesomeness
Today we celebrate the 40th anniversary of the first episode of Star Trek.
Thank-you, Creator, Gene Roddenberry, for giving all Nerds a common flag under which they may join, comiserate, and with the help of a well-stocked bar at the convention hotel, multiply.
For 40 years, you've helped the world to know that a series full of flimsy plots, formulaic story lines and squelchy acting can truly be more than the sum of its parts. (MTV owes you one.)
For what you've done with so little, we salute you.
For what you've done for the world, we thank you.
Please, live long, and prosper.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Life is in the contrast
Today was a day like the first time you’re rough-housing with a new girlfriend and she accidentally pops you in the nose. Things are still fun. Things are still cute. But see if you don’t keep an eye on that left hook of hers from now on.
I love it here in Galveston. I feel like I’m kicking ass. I’m having fun. I’m making mistakes and that’s okay. I’m trying. I’m doing things right. And that’s good too. I’m being overbearing and riding on my RA’s. I’m challenging them. And they’re challenging me right back.
Working with James… well its like working with Fred G. Sanford from Sanford and Sons. You really have no idea from one moment to the next whether he’s going to say something crass, complain, piss off a student or clutch his chest and wail: “I’m a-comin, Elizabeth!” Ol’ Jimmy, he keeps it interesting.
I have a boss that has my back. He works for the people who work for him. And for that, he’s earned my very hardest effort. I feel good about things.
However, today… Today was that bop in the schnozz from a pretty girl. I was scattered from the moment I woke up. It was one of those days where everything seemed to be taking twice as many trips because you keep forgetting keys, which seem to disappear the moment you put them on your desk. Everything took me at least two tries today. I left my I.D. in my apartment, went to the office and grabbed the wrong spare key, so I had to do the walk of shame back to the office again get the right spare key to let myself back into my apartment so I can waste another 20 minutes looking for the key that ended up being in the pocket of the pants I was sure I had already checked.
I ruffled the feathers of the one group of people on campus I really can’t afford to ruffle. And what’s more, it sorta went down in such a way that, in my standing up for myself, I’m afraid I might have got them bopped in the nose themselves. I think I’d rather have taken the hit and saved the political currency for a rainier day. But I wouldn’t have been the only one suffering the hit, so I couldn’t.
Apparently, not everyone on campus sees me as Baylor’s gift to the A&M world. Surprise.
Everything took twice as long to do today. I felt like everything I did rubbed people the wrong way. It was the sort of day that made you really understand the phrase: “the road to hell is paved in good intentions.” My intentions were pure, I still think my execution was true. But you know there’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip. And I seemed to definitely be missing that damn lip today.
But today I also had my very first 1-on-1 with an RA. Not a big production. It is merely meant as time with her supervisor to help her get an idea of her performance as well as a chance for the supervisor to get feedback on their performance. But also, it’s a chance for me to get nosey and let them get nosey as well. After we covered the basic crap about what she had planned insofar as programming, I had a chance to ask her about her boyfriend of nearly 2 years. I had a chance to let her know that I do think about our interactions and that I do notice things. I love bonding.
And then I gave her the chance to ask me anything. And Sweet Jesus, she went straight for the jugular. Girls. So I was completely honest, though I don’t know she was impressed with the answer. I told her where I was.
We talked about how I’m getting used to living on my own, for the first time ever, after moving from a place where I knew everyone and everything to a place where a month later I’m still a little hazy on how the “hold” button works on the phones. I admitted that it’s a little hard to close my door at night and walk around an empty apartment, hearing no other voices than those on T.V. and my own.
I kinda want a dog. Or maybe a cat.
It was all a little easier to deal when I was working the 14-hour days during the planning of RA Training, the actual days of RA training and then Check-in and Gig ‘Em Week. But now that I’m getting the hang of things, I’m finding that the world actually won’t stop spinning on its axis without me and I actually don’t have to be around all the time.
So what do I do now? I’ve been working out again. I play about two hours of basketball and then follow that up with a quick run around the periphery of campus (two, if I’m feeling saucey or the basketball games were only half-court).
Um, I watch House on Tuesdays at 7 and The Contender at 9. But I don’t really like watching T.V. by myself.
I’ve been bothering the residents on my floor. I mess with the Bulletin Board. Sometimes I go back to the office and check my email, mess with my To Do lists for the next day, straighten things up, take out the trash and save Virginia a little work.
But really lately, I’ve been spending a lot of my free time thinking about how blessed I am to be where I am. I seriously have the greatest job in the world. I freaking love every single one of my RA’s. I think we both began to tear up [still in the 1-on-1] when I was telling her this.
Yes, things are a little… different. But I love the fact that I have days like this. I love that I’m not in a perfect situation. I think that we, as people, need to be a little uncomfortable. We need to have that struggle, that uphill fight, to keep us pushing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a masochist, [I am Catholic]. I just think that we need to have a sense of accomplishment.
We need to have those sour days so we can appreciate the sweet ones. We need to have bad bosses so we can appreciate the good ones. We need to have our hearts broken from time to time, so we know how to truly use them. Life is all about contrasts.
Today was a classic case of this. I had my moment with Danielle where I sorta began to choke up. Because it was during a 1-on-1 with my first Hall Director and Mentor, Andrew Telep, when I first realized the path God had chosen for my life. I wanted to be a Hall Director. I wanted to have 1-on-1’s with RA’s and hope God will use me, as unworthy as I may be, to pour into their lives as I had others pour into me. I don’t think I realized this morning how that moment was 4 years in the making. I don’t think Danielle realized it either. Hell, I’m not sure I fully grasp it as I’m typing.
I guess my point is that I need to be thankful for days like these. Life is in the contrast, fellas. Thank the black so I can see the white.
Dropping it like its hot,
Neil
I love it here in Galveston. I feel like I’m kicking ass. I’m having fun. I’m making mistakes and that’s okay. I’m trying. I’m doing things right. And that’s good too. I’m being overbearing and riding on my RA’s. I’m challenging them. And they’re challenging me right back.
Working with James… well its like working with Fred G. Sanford from Sanford and Sons. You really have no idea from one moment to the next whether he’s going to say something crass, complain, piss off a student or clutch his chest and wail: “I’m a-comin, Elizabeth!” Ol’ Jimmy, he keeps it interesting.
I have a boss that has my back. He works for the people who work for him. And for that, he’s earned my very hardest effort. I feel good about things.
However, today… Today was that bop in the schnozz from a pretty girl. I was scattered from the moment I woke up. It was one of those days where everything seemed to be taking twice as many trips because you keep forgetting keys, which seem to disappear the moment you put them on your desk. Everything took me at least two tries today. I left my I.D. in my apartment, went to the office and grabbed the wrong spare key, so I had to do the walk of shame back to the office again get the right spare key to let myself back into my apartment so I can waste another 20 minutes looking for the key that ended up being in the pocket of the pants I was sure I had already checked.
I ruffled the feathers of the one group of people on campus I really can’t afford to ruffle. And what’s more, it sorta went down in such a way that, in my standing up for myself, I’m afraid I might have got them bopped in the nose themselves. I think I’d rather have taken the hit and saved the political currency for a rainier day. But I wouldn’t have been the only one suffering the hit, so I couldn’t.
Apparently, not everyone on campus sees me as Baylor’s gift to the A&M world. Surprise.
Everything took twice as long to do today. I felt like everything I did rubbed people the wrong way. It was the sort of day that made you really understand the phrase: “the road to hell is paved in good intentions.” My intentions were pure, I still think my execution was true. But you know there’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip. And I seemed to definitely be missing that damn lip today.
But today I also had my very first 1-on-1 with an RA. Not a big production. It is merely meant as time with her supervisor to help her get an idea of her performance as well as a chance for the supervisor to get feedback on their performance. But also, it’s a chance for me to get nosey and let them get nosey as well. After we covered the basic crap about what she had planned insofar as programming, I had a chance to ask her about her boyfriend of nearly 2 years. I had a chance to let her know that I do think about our interactions and that I do notice things. I love bonding.
And then I gave her the chance to ask me anything. And Sweet Jesus, she went straight for the jugular. Girls. So I was completely honest, though I don’t know she was impressed with the answer. I told her where I was.
We talked about how I’m getting used to living on my own, for the first time ever, after moving from a place where I knew everyone and everything to a place where a month later I’m still a little hazy on how the “hold” button works on the phones. I admitted that it’s a little hard to close my door at night and walk around an empty apartment, hearing no other voices than those on T.V. and my own.
I kinda want a dog. Or maybe a cat.
It was all a little easier to deal when I was working the 14-hour days during the planning of RA Training, the actual days of RA training and then Check-in and Gig ‘Em Week. But now that I’m getting the hang of things, I’m finding that the world actually won’t stop spinning on its axis without me and I actually don’t have to be around all the time.
So what do I do now? I’ve been working out again. I play about two hours of basketball and then follow that up with a quick run around the periphery of campus (two, if I’m feeling saucey or the basketball games were only half-court).
Um, I watch House on Tuesdays at 7 and The Contender at 9. But I don’t really like watching T.V. by myself.
I’ve been bothering the residents on my floor. I mess with the Bulletin Board. Sometimes I go back to the office and check my email, mess with my To Do lists for the next day, straighten things up, take out the trash and save Virginia a little work.
But really lately, I’ve been spending a lot of my free time thinking about how blessed I am to be where I am. I seriously have the greatest job in the world. I freaking love every single one of my RA’s. I think we both began to tear up [still in the 1-on-1] when I was telling her this.
Yes, things are a little… different. But I love the fact that I have days like this. I love that I’m not in a perfect situation. I think that we, as people, need to be a little uncomfortable. We need to have that struggle, that uphill fight, to keep us pushing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a masochist, [I am Catholic]. I just think that we need to have a sense of accomplishment.
We need to have those sour days so we can appreciate the sweet ones. We need to have bad bosses so we can appreciate the good ones. We need to have our hearts broken from time to time, so we know how to truly use them. Life is all about contrasts.
Today was a classic case of this. I had my moment with Danielle where I sorta began to choke up. Because it was during a 1-on-1 with my first Hall Director and Mentor, Andrew Telep, when I first realized the path God had chosen for my life. I wanted to be a Hall Director. I wanted to have 1-on-1’s with RA’s and hope God will use me, as unworthy as I may be, to pour into their lives as I had others pour into me. I don’t think I realized this morning how that moment was 4 years in the making. I don’t think Danielle realized it either. Hell, I’m not sure I fully grasp it as I’m typing.
I guess my point is that I need to be thankful for days like these. Life is in the contrast, fellas. Thank the black so I can see the white.
Dropping it like its hot,
Neil
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
