Drunk Posting is so Trashy.

Next time, I promise never to do it again.

On a side note. I'm finally going to send in some of my posts. If anyone has any ones that they find particularly fun, let a fella know. And tell me too.

My Brother, The Genius

I just had what could possibly be, the moment for which I've been praying my entire damned life.

It started out innocuous enough. The day after Thanksgiving, my favorite holida (0utside my birthday. So I'm an ass, sue me.) We woke up aroudn 10 and went to go play walley-ball. It was two hours of completley un-coordinated fun (walleyball is impossible to be good at. Screw you, Paul O'Neil for trying to give me any God-damned advice on where to stand, you smug asshole.) . And that's why I like it. We're all equal.

Anyway, afterwards, Bennie-hanna, younger brother extrordinaire and I went home to take 5 minute (count-em, 5-minute) showers and retrieve Ben's significant other/girlfriend of 4+ years, Erin O'Neil (related to the smug bastard, Paul of the same surname). 2 showers and a couple of Gold-Bond splashes to the nethers later (I taught him that) we were meeting the rest of the famn Golemo damily in the River City Mall to see "Walk the Line." Great movie. Honestly. Kicked my butt. Made me want to stop drinking. That's wHy Ivey swtihced ot gUienns nd dicer only. [sips Hornsby (John I love you, baby)]

For the record, Bonhoeffer would fucking LOVE ME right now.

After that, we went and played Apples to Apples. A great game I've heard about for years. Madame, mi madre, kicked everyone's ass. Because no one better, on God's green and purple earth, has the ability to think like other people, than my mother. She kicked our asses. All 9 of us.

As the game was ending, I recieved a phone-call from my favorite person ever to graduate from a Catholic school, (other than Pappacho) Tom "my dad's ironically a foot doctor" Sowlles. He says everyone's going to the place my parent's always told me I couldn't go: The "crew." Resident local bar/Den of iniquity.

"I'm in." I say.

I drive my cousin Andee's car, as well as Andee herself (sorry, I'm reading Restaurant at The End of The Universe right now) to said bar. [Enter smokey entrance] Andee is the shit (and a female) and all is good. We kick ass and in the process, names are taken. Good times.

Eventually, such a bombardment of "wasn't it great back when's" and "remember the time you did that's" and "I'll never forget when you kicked that teacher in the ear's" began to get to me. So I decided my brother and his significant other/girlfriend, Erin O'Neill (sister of that smug bastard, Paul of the same surname) should share in the "fun." It'd be good for them.

So I leave (without hollaring at my ex-girlfriend, Nikki McVeigh-even if you still look hot) and drive home and tell my brother that pretty much half of his grade is at the Crew (for the record 12 kids is nearly, in fact, half his grade). He and Erin, under a blanket and sitting upright is a little weird, but I don't ask... or make eye-contact, agree to come with us. "It'll be interesting, they say" (Erin's still pissed because people never cared about my brother until he went to West Point the year after 9/11... which may be slightly true).

But I'll say this much. I wanted my brother to go. Because I've realized this much in my years since High School. If I can grow up even a smidge. Then other people can too, god-damnit. Zach Steinman has. And Jesus-knows, Zach Steinman... well anyone knows-knows. I wanted his approval so much. It broke my heart in high-school when he told me "y'know, Golemo, how popular you'd be if you drank?" And yet, I think he gets where I was, now. If he can get it, 3 years after my graduation, other can, too. Plus, even if your interests are purely sociological, its hella-fun.

So we all go. I've not had a drink. So much fun. I actually, for the first time since watching my 18-month-old cousin learn my name, got to watch someone learn as I saw my brother learn the same lesson I've learned 3 or 4 times over, because once isn't enough for the average genius.

One night of me choiffering (sp?) Bennie and his significant other/girlfriend of 4+ years Erin O'Neill (sister of the smug bastard of the same surname) around, we end up in our kitchen drinking tastey beers (imported) and remembering better times and how perspective can kick all our asses...

Zoned out for a second listening to music.

Zach "the man" Allen leaves.

Erin O'Neill (sister of the smug bastard of the same surname) needed to go home... cause its 3 AM.

"I can walk," she moronically states.

"It's Illinois" as if anyone had forgotten "its 22 degrees outside. You're not walking home."

[skipping stupid not-so-witty reparte.]

I'm driving her home, in the back seat of my dad's second-hand Luxury Buick/"Old-Man-Mobile" (but he really likes it) with Ben in the back seat. I'm driving Ms and Mr. Daisey.

They smoochey-woochie at her front door.

Ben and I start to chat. He's pissed about things. I'm wanting to hear about him. "Tell me something important" my jewish-mother mantra as become. "Seriously." He pours.

I dole out brotherly advice. And honestly, we end up having a wonderful conversation. I drive my father's (surprisingly comfortable) car around all the tracks for about45 mintutes. My brother, the best friend and God's greatest-ever gift to me, have a wonderful convo. We talk about both the important and the retarded-everyday that so makes up a brother's life. A child's life.

I feel like a good man. I tell him how I only want to affect people. I tell him about Jonah and he says he reads my blog about him.... a lot. I choke back the tears.

And then we come back to the kitchen and talk about authors, theology and the girl I dig between bouts with our toilet. (number 2 comes when it comes)

We listen to some Death Cab and I write this blog.

I love my brother. He loves me. He says my life has improved our families. I can die at 5:45 proud. But I hope I live 'til 10 AM. Cause Pappacho's taking me and Bennie to see Camp Eastman at 8. We've planned to ask him about Grandpa and Grandma Golemo. All we know, between the two of us, is that He was a medic in the 82nd, had an Eagle and that She could, in one movement, kick her shoe off her foot and hit a running pappacho in the back of the head with it as he was fleeing the room. We want more.

I love you Bennie. I love you, dad. I love you God.

Kisses,
Neil

L minus the Cool J.

I'm not going to kid you, gentle readers, I'm having a bit of trouble starting this Blog. I was thinking of starting off with something like "I remember the time I punched Racism in the kidney... that was sweet" but I wasn't diggin that. Too completely pointless.

I'm pondering Love. I was wondering if I've ever Loved anyone. I would say "no." I love my mom. I love my brothers and sisters. I love my athletes and I love my friends and family. I love the guy whose coffee I just randomly bought. He looked cold, and his jacket had a hole in it. And this Gingerbread Latte really IS too good not to share.

I think sometimes I just need to start writing.

I'll just jump into it. Love is not a feeling. Its a choice. People get pissed off when you say that. Because we've been raised on after-school specials and the OC and "The Notebook" on screens in houses where parents let their children learn morality while they are chasing careers in directions that veer like a) "women drivers on cough syrup" (Annie Spruell gave me that), b) "two bottle rockets tied to a shoe" (Trevor, the 8-year-old in Starbucks two tables away from me contributed that gem), or finally, c) "a dog chasing a mailman with a right leg 4 inches shorter than the left (That gem was given to me by Bethany Rose "don't make a perverted joke about my last name" Pettit).

Movies like Hitch, pretty much any collaboration of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, or any movie where the audience doesn't see more than five minutes after the courtship, though rife with zany and awkward Ben Stiller moments they may be, don't give us an accurate idea of what "love" is. They tell us about Attraction and Connection and Caring. But Love? Not so much. They're what I would refer to as "emotional pornography."

To be absolutely honest, they really are a form of pornography when you think about it. They're completely idealized, over-simplified, staged and utterly unrealistic. No one ever really talks like that and the music tends to be cheesey as well. But I digress...

As I said above, Love is a choice. It's a choice to be loyal to, care about, and put your feelings below the needs of, someone else. Come what may.

Oh, and lets discuss "come what may." The "what" is short for "whatever" as in "come whatever in the world that could possibly come, we don't care. It won't shake my resolve to love this person." Possible things that may come: Halitosis, a big fat gut, alcoholism, jiggle in the thighs, cancer, annoying wheezing laugh, quadrapolegia, colostomies and their corresponding bags, losing a job, children, loss of children, a third chin, Disease, depression, an obsession with Dungeons & Dragons, a taste for expensive jewelry/bling, receding hairlines, proceeding waistlines, loss of hearing, the inability to cook a simple bag of popcorn without burning it, dammit... That's a short list.

When you marry someone, you're making a promise to continue to make that promise again and again and again and again. And then some more.

And I've never done this. I've had my fair share of relationships, and I've given up on every single one of them thus far. Sometimes it was my choice, and believe-it-or-not, sometimes it wasn't. But there's one thing in common of all my relationships (besides the fact that I was in them... [sad face-melting-into self-deprecating laugh]) : I've given up on them all.

Right now, I feel like I'm noodles on a rolling boil. I'm everywhere and everything but settled, but eventually, I know that I'll get to the point where if I'm thrown against a wall, I'll stick. (That's a metaphor, everyone.)

Here's to being Al Dente. Here's to making it stick. Here's to choosing to give up the right to choose.

When you can't think of anything to write... write what you're thinking

Yeah so I was walking from my apt to Common Grounds (local coffee shop) one night over fall break a year ago or so and I cut through the Collins Parking Lot. I got to that dark corner where you always see the raccoons and I walk by this car parked right next to the sidewalk. As I get close to it, I notice its sorta bouncing. Its late, and I had junk on my mind and I wasn't really thinking and then I walked right by it and I hear "Jesus... [moan]oh GOD[moan/]!"

At this point, my Porndar goes off and I turn back. I see the sillhouettes... wow. I blushed and clapped and kept on going. I was still giggling like a little girl when I met up with my date. Needless to say, it got the conversation going with the lady-friend... ifyouknowwhatImeanandIthinkyoudo... right. We mutually decided she needed to go home and wash her hair and it was totally mutual.

Sometimes I cry when no one's around.

(whoa, totally give away small-town origins when you reference anything to where you can see a certain type of animal... BID)

Yeah, I said it.

You KNOW you've been a virgin too long when you talk to a beautiful woman and skip being horny and go straight to "pissed off."

If you don't know how I feel, then you're either under 24, or not a virgin, or I'm wondering why a Eunich would be on my webspace.

For the last eight or nine months I feel I've been a frayed rubber ball made from the stretched rubber-bands of used out and overworn emotional muscles that so form a man. I've had relationship after relationship, both platonic and others with the potential for more, sail into and promptly through the harbor of my influence without so much waggled hand or turned head. It's been a while since I've been able to care enough to care.

I'm not asking for sympathy.

Not asking for pity.

Not looking for attention.

Its just that I don't have the emotional currency to spend on a girl right now in my life. When talking to my recently-married friend Jordan about what it's like to be newly-wed, he admitted that at times, he finds himself a little weirded out and wondering "ok, don't you need to go home? Aren't your parents going to get pissed off if you're here past your curfew?" This ejaculation of inner thoughts put a look on my face somewhere between smelling poo in my office and a friend telling me a story of how he saw a girl throw up on her tray at lunch and ate anyway. I know my emotional stamina is barely enough to sustain a run across the court much less the 12-round bout that can be a day with even the sweetest, most sublime peach of a lass.

And yet, there's this knowlege that someday, I am going to want a woman in my life. I mean, one day, I really do want to meet a woman whom I could serve and support. Someone to argue with over who's going to take little Neil Jr and Neilia to their respective baseball and ballet classes. (Not that I'd have a problem with the reversal of their classes... I'm told ballet is quite a test of one's man-hood... no really.)

I know this is a need I'm going to have. And thinking about it is like thinking about a huge bill that I'm going to pay someday in the future. My mind-set is "hell, start paying that bad-boy down right away, son!" So one can see my angst.

So I was talking to a friend of mine tonight and I realized this is what I want. I want to meet a girl. A great girl. Preferably a semi-confirmed single girl who is currently focused on her career. One that I could call every 3 or 4 days. No more. -And by "call" I mean like 5 minutes to an hour conversations. Tops. And no text-message conversations. Text messages should be one-and-done in my opinion. Any more than that, pick up the damn phone and call.

Maybe I could see her every couple or few weeks: Movie and/or Coffee (or a beer/drink with an umbrella - guess). Nothing more domestic than that for the first couple months. Maybe, eventually, she could meet a friend or two or I'll cook her dinner at my house after a couple months. No kissing for a month or two. Seriously. That just makes you want to be a dumbass and see her more often.

Talk only. This damn way we'll be forced to actually, I don't know, um, get to know each other?

I just want to go slow. And by slow I mean, not fast. If she asks me to meet a family member in that first few months, they'd better have cancer or some darn entertaining magic tricks (at least be double-jointed? Pls Advise).

I don't know how to say it. But Baylor does weird things to you. I'm only just now realizing how it grips you -holds you. Only at Baylor could you eavesdrop on two girls talking and hear about how the first date with this fella had to be the last because she "just couldn't see them getting married." I know all dates are interviews, but damn.

Now that Graduate school has shoved me towards the periphery of the Baylor bubble I'm able to enjoy the view from my window seat and see how the rest of the world lives. Its not a window seat. Its the blowhole from which I am able to recieve some much-needed air. One of the things about living in the belly of the beast is that most of the time its too dark to get a good look at one's reflection. We forget this sometimes.

Its around this part of a blog that I usually try to offer some catharsis, a road to the salvation for which I so dearly pray. I am sorry, but don't know if this time I can offer such satisfaction. I don't expect to be "over" these feelings anytime so soon. This next year is going to be one of planning for the next leg of my grand voyage through life. Will I stay at Baylor? 50% and falling. Will I finally go "out east" as I've been promising myself for ever so long? Or will God follow precedent and lead me some other crazy place for reasons completely beyond my comprehension? Who's to know? Well me, eventually.

Until the time when what is to be known is being known, I guess I'll just sip my beer, smile and nod the occasional angry nod. Freaking virginity.

They call me "Che" Golemo...

You scored as Socialist. <'Imunimaginative's Deviantart Page'> Socialist 100% Democrat 83% Green 75% Communism 75% Anarchism 42% Fascism 33% Nazi 17% Republican 17% What Political Party Do Your Beliefs Put You In? created with QuizFarm.com

The Bliss of Ignorance...

A woman rushes through her front door, sweat brimming upon her forhead, knuckles still white from the speeding commute from her office. She zips about the room, connecting the dots of mess to mess in a hurried attempt to make her home presentable. Her head snaps up from the straightening of magazines on the coffee-table at the sound of the front door opening.

In walks a man in a suit. As he's putting his keys in the dish by the door she asks, "H-Hi honey! How are you?"

"Tired and hungry" he replies as he loosens his tie and takes off his suit jacket. "What's for dinner?"

"Oh... well, um, I was super-busy at work today and I only just beat you home myself." She throws out the words as if they were paper towels about to soak up a mess she'd yet to make. "I was just going to throw in a couple of frozen dinners..."

At the word "dinner" his face steels from the annoyed frowning at the selection of feminine magazines into a bit-lip stare. "Frozen dinners?" he asks coldly. "So lets see, I get to spend 8 hours at work, plus an hour commute, because, you wanted to live close to your mother... And frosen dinners is what I get to come home to? That's great, Diana. That's just awesome."

"I'm sorry, honey let me just go warm up the oven" she says with half a turn to the kitchen.

"No." he interrupts, "Its okay. I don't care. You know why? Because you're fucking worthless." His sneer freezes her into place. "I make all these sacrifices around here. And for what? What? What the fuck is this?" he growls, barely audibly, as he picks up a peice of trash she was unable to coral. "You can't even keep a clean fucking house?"

He throws the offense at her feet.

"I'm sorry, honey. I didn't see-" her words are cut off by his hand at her neck pushing her back into the wall. Her heels totter as they try, desperately, to keep from getting lost in the backpedaling.

"Diana" he coo's, "what did I tell you about talking back? Hmm? DON'T. TALK. BACK-TO-ME!" he screams, finally, as he hits his fist into the wall, inches from her head. "I am the man, of this house. -And I deserve respect. And I will get respect if I have to BEAT-IT. OUTTA-YOU!" he finally screams, his nose nearly touching hers, punctuating the last phrases with two more punches to the dry-wall by her ear.

"I'm sorry, baby, you know I respect y-" her last words are cut short by his knuckle to her jaw. She crumples to the floor, sobbing, hair sheilding her eyes from his horror-struck expression.

Tears begin to well in his eyes as he falls to his knees. "I'm so sorry baby! I'm so sorry. Don't cry."

Her shoulder recoils from the touch of his outstretched hand.

"You know I love you, baby. I love you so much." he says, voice cracking behind the weight of guilty tears. "You just... you just make me so crazy sometimes. Please don't cry."

Her shoulders continue to shake, like a car on its last ounce of gas.

"STOP crying." He suddenly says, devoid of emotion. An instant later he rises and pushes her away from him.

"Fuck it. Clean this shit up and make me a real fucking dinner." The door slams behind him. Her shoulders continue to shake.

Slowly, her hand reaches out. And begins to pick up the trash.

The previous story, was written by myself and based upon a loose script for something Baylor University puts on, called: "The Tunnel of Oppression." This program, made up of a circuit of vignets in different rooms, each one designed to illustrate a different form of oppression -from racial, to sexual, to domestic-, is unlike any experience I've ever encountered.

Last year, I was asked to fill in for an actor in this very skit. I'll spare you the details, but I had trouble doing it. Litterally. I had acted before, but I had never acted like this. Never screamed in a woman's face. Never punched a wall by a woman's head. Never hit a woman. And each of these "never's" were taken from me in turn. And again. And again. And again.

But let me tell you the ugly truth. I was good at it. I was very good at it.

We all have thoughts. Malicious, dark, devient thoughts. We've all held a knife and wanted, if only for an instant, to stab the cutting board. We've all held a razor and wondered how hard we could push. But these are thoughts we beat down as soon as they arise, like the gopher game at Chuckie Cheese's. But what is it like to not only, hold ourselves back from hitting these gophers down, but inviting them up, examining their features and feeling their curves and grooves?

I know it sounds cliche' but for an instant, I became that man. And it hurt me to know that "that man" wasn't so hard to find. It was sort of like singing obnoxiously in a room you thought was sound-proof only to walk out and hear someone else doing the same thing. The walls are much thinner than we'd supposed.

I realized quickly, that I am no better than any wife-beater, or abusive uncle. We are both fallen, and for different circumstances... well, that's a gopher I choose to beat down.

When I wrote the part of the script, where the man starts to cry and apologizes to his wife, I could hardly believe what I was thinking. And the first time I said it, I nearly vomitted all over the poor actress receiving my abuse. I guess that made me feel a little better. But in the end, it was still me, looking straight into the face of that of which I am capable, the malice and anger in me.

In the end, I told my fellow actors how, yes, it was hard. But that we had a real chance to do some amazing good. And if the better we were, the more likely we were to touch people, to wake them up, to rob them of the indifference allowed them by their ignorance. And that if we put ourselves, our words, our minds into God's hands, and begged him to make the words we speak to be the words he would have of us, he would heal our hearts and make us stronger at the break.

And while I may have been sort of talking out of my ass, perhaps I've since realized that perhaps God can sometimes use my ass to say some pretty smart things. (Yes, Dad. I just said that God sometimes speaks out of my ass.)

I've spent some time with my dark side. And while I doubt I'll ever be comfortable with that "Neil", maybe I'll at least be able to remember not to sing too loud, because the walls can be thinner that we think.