When I’m driving on the old streets I grew up on, there come’s a point when I really start to think. I'll be listening to new music, but it will remind me of familiar feelings. I start to contemplate existence. It is a rather deep subject that doesn't need my critique on a blog. Although, I can't help but wonder if at 85 the paint will be dull--if it will be fresh--if it will remind me that I am old.
I wonder what I will think of when I'm old. I certainly hope I don't reflect back and wonder what I will be thinking when I'm old. I hope I don't look back and wonder what I was thinking then. I can only hope that everything I do is progressive. I hope I am always taking a step forward.
When I cross the same streets, I hope I bring with me a new perspective.
I am starting to learn more about myself by dealing with school. I spend a lot of my day complaining about how poorly I am doing, when in reality I'm not doing "that" bad. I'm doing as can be expected for a person who works full-time and takes 15 credit hours. I am not excellent in any course, but I am not failing. I am in the middle. That is fine. I know that I am not motivated enough to get high scores. I am losing that particular feeling of worry that ignites in the crawl space of my stomach--the one that nearly burned the operation down before it could be contained.
I am starting to notice things more. I notice that I need people less. I can rely on myself. I am confident that I am attractive, funny, and witty. Nothing externally can intimidate me to shake that vision. Sure, I might not write the best articles in class, or the best papers--I suck at test taking, for sure--but it doesn't bring me down. Sometimes you have to realize that certain things just don't matter much. This is life, and when I cross those same old streets, I never want to adventure them with insecurity. I never want to cross them depressed. I've made it a goal to embark on the voyage of my life determined for success but above all, happiness.
Just a random thought for Friday. Have a great weekend.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Text: Father, funeral
Often times I find myself contemplating what I would say at my father's funeral.
In 2002 my father died of a heart attack. He died on the same weekend that my mother married my stepfather. My mother put off the marriage for 10 years. My father's death ushered in some freedom in my life. He left me as the beneficiary on his life insurance. The money freed me from credit card debt that I was literally about to consolidate the same week. I ended up obtaining his truck the very same month my 36-month car-lease was ending. In one month, problems resolved but in their doing so, more problems spawned. I began to consider myself as a man.
You realize that you've failed up until this point. You are fighting to save a personal love-interest with a girl you hardly care about. You're strapped to an amazing amount of debt for someone of your age. You're landlocked in Colorado due to a condo purchase you've made. You find solace in attending college, if even for just a moment you feel like you're doing something worthwhile. Even there you can struggle--but it is different from everything else. You are graded, you can see how you stand up to the rest. You have some confirmation of life in school. You also wonder if your father felt like he failed. Did he share any of your emotions. Hell, you begin to wonder if he even has any. If you never receive a call from your father, does he still cry?
As a boy, you look to your father to measure yourself. You grow in his shadow. He is the law. Whenever you don't have the courage to stand up for yourself, he should be the bastard shoving you into the fray. He should tell you, "Son, you can do this. You can do anything. You just have to be strong." In the face of death, a soldier needs his captain to wash the stomach-churning fear from its occupation. Where is my captain. When I stare long and hard into the angry face of life, what armor breaks its teeth when it comes to bite. What is my grade--what is his grade--when it is all said and done. When you don't attend class--when you don't see your son--what are you really learning. You never learn to grow as a man whether you are the father or the son in that scenario.
You’d shed a tear for yourself if you only knew it was right. You’d shed a tear for the death of a father if you believed it would’ve made a difference. In this case, you don’t sit around and wonder who or what your father was. I chose not to see him in the casket, as I showed up late (flying in from my mother’s wedding in Vegas, to my father’s funeral in Colorado). I want to remember him as a forgotten call on Christmas.
You realize that answering questions of his existence may be vital to your understanding of him, but not for understanding yourself. The more you know about a man you don’t want to be, the more likely you’re able to mimic his actions and justify them as part of your genetic core. Here you do not learn from history. You take the path not traveled. You be a good father because you never knew if yours could be. You take the second chance at freedom and capitalize. You meet the right girl. You worry less about stress. You create makeshift tools to guide you in the construction of yourself--you blueprint the foundation of manhood. You hope some day to succeed, using mistakes, immaturity, and experience to sharpen the edges. You are your own guide now. You are the captain.
If there is anything I’ve learned from my father, it is that he loved me. He told me it. I was a passing thought on holidays, contemplated whenever he viewed a family sitcom, considered whenever he thought of his successor—I was a thought. I was everything he wished he had the second chance to be. I was just a long distance call and a $250-a-month bill. I can say the same of my car payments.
My father is gone now. Gone is the legacy, or so I’ve heard, of comedic ingenuity wrapped into a downtrodden heavy-machinery salesman. Here today I stand a descendant of his glory. No further knowledge of him than what I can speculate or hear from those who knew him. I stand at the fork-road of life, the unwanted path of his life behind me, and only my future ahead. I miss you dad, but I’d miss you more if I had known you.
In 2002 my father died of a heart attack. He died on the same weekend that my mother married my stepfather. My mother put off the marriage for 10 years. My father's death ushered in some freedom in my life. He left me as the beneficiary on his life insurance. The money freed me from credit card debt that I was literally about to consolidate the same week. I ended up obtaining his truck the very same month my 36-month car-lease was ending. In one month, problems resolved but in their doing so, more problems spawned. I began to consider myself as a man.
You realize that you've failed up until this point. You are fighting to save a personal love-interest with a girl you hardly care about. You're strapped to an amazing amount of debt for someone of your age. You're landlocked in Colorado due to a condo purchase you've made. You find solace in attending college, if even for just a moment you feel like you're doing something worthwhile. Even there you can struggle--but it is different from everything else. You are graded, you can see how you stand up to the rest. You have some confirmation of life in school. You also wonder if your father felt like he failed. Did he share any of your emotions. Hell, you begin to wonder if he even has any. If you never receive a call from your father, does he still cry?
As a boy, you look to your father to measure yourself. You grow in his shadow. He is the law. Whenever you don't have the courage to stand up for yourself, he should be the bastard shoving you into the fray. He should tell you, "Son, you can do this. You can do anything. You just have to be strong." In the face of death, a soldier needs his captain to wash the stomach-churning fear from its occupation. Where is my captain. When I stare long and hard into the angry face of life, what armor breaks its teeth when it comes to bite. What is my grade--what is his grade--when it is all said and done. When you don't attend class--when you don't see your son--what are you really learning. You never learn to grow as a man whether you are the father or the son in that scenario.
You’d shed a tear for yourself if you only knew it was right. You’d shed a tear for the death of a father if you believed it would’ve made a difference. In this case, you don’t sit around and wonder who or what your father was. I chose not to see him in the casket, as I showed up late (flying in from my mother’s wedding in Vegas, to my father’s funeral in Colorado). I want to remember him as a forgotten call on Christmas.
You realize that answering questions of his existence may be vital to your understanding of him, but not for understanding yourself. The more you know about a man you don’t want to be, the more likely you’re able to mimic his actions and justify them as part of your genetic core. Here you do not learn from history. You take the path not traveled. You be a good father because you never knew if yours could be. You take the second chance at freedom and capitalize. You meet the right girl. You worry less about stress. You create makeshift tools to guide you in the construction of yourself--you blueprint the foundation of manhood. You hope some day to succeed, using mistakes, immaturity, and experience to sharpen the edges. You are your own guide now. You are the captain.
If there is anything I’ve learned from my father, it is that he loved me. He told me it. I was a passing thought on holidays, contemplated whenever he viewed a family sitcom, considered whenever he thought of his successor—I was a thought. I was everything he wished he had the second chance to be. I was just a long distance call and a $250-a-month bill. I can say the same of my car payments.
My father is gone now. Gone is the legacy, or so I’ve heard, of comedic ingenuity wrapped into a downtrodden heavy-machinery salesman. Here today I stand a descendant of his glory. No further knowledge of him than what I can speculate or hear from those who knew him. I stand at the fork-road of life, the unwanted path of his life behind me, and only my future ahead. I miss you dad, but I’d miss you more if I had known you.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Text: Procastination, being
Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.
O that that earth which kept the world in awe
Should patch a wall t'expel the winter's flaw. -- Hamlet, Shakespeare
Life is great. If nothing else for the fact that you know no matter how much you will fuck up one day, or how terrible everything will seem, it will end. It will all be over. You can work your hardest to provide for your family; break your back to achieve rank and status; and when you go to bed at night, you close your eyes, much in the way the world closes it's own on you someday. You connect to your dreams, everything you have experienced swirling in a stew of mixed images--memories, passions, loves, losses--and then the inevitable happens. You don't wake up. You don't have another chance to say, 'Woah, I had a dream about that the other day.' You become the nothingness that you've always been a part of, permanently, although no one stopped to realize that you were nothing already. They didn't stop to think that they were nothing as well.
Why the morbid topic? Perhaps it is the procrastinators last salvation. In a world fueled by man-made interests, enraptured by ethical and philosophical discourse, you know the question on everyone's mind is 'Why do anything at all?' You can do literally nothing and wither away, or you can do everything and the same will occur. So in a world where people are determined by how close and far they are from sanity and insanity, why not try insanity for the hell of it? Why be conservative in a world that is begging you to liberal? We've all only lived this life once, how do we know what the best path is? Why be consumed by jealousy, why care at all?
Women.
For women: men.
There is only one thing that we revolve around. Women are the earth men are the sun. This isn't a new tradition. Without each other, they are nothing. The earth becomes a floating rock, cold, lifeless and the sun, without something to burn for burns for no one. Would the sun exist without the earth? Could the woman or man exist without the opposite? Women make great men, women make themselves great--but would women make great women, or men make great men? Could two Earths strive together? Would two suns be too hot, consumed by their own desire to burn hotter than the other? Our entire world exists on the duality of everything. With patience there is anger, "for fear there is a heart, to doubt, a mind" (Cummings). For every dawn there is dusk. In life, we need death. As a man, you need a woman. As a woman, you need a man. Apart from the Christian ideal that heterosexuality is essential to the progression of mankind, it is also quintessential to nature.
So what is the meaning of life? Can there be enough balance in a single sentence to answer that question completely? The meaning of life is a woman, but not so much as the woman is the end of life once you've been with her. She should invigorate and refresh all that you've made for yourself. When your day comes, you had two hearts, two souls mixed together--she the Earth, you the sun. With your warmth she is given life, weathering the seasons of her spirit, as you and her thrive from the other--and everything that she is, makes you burn.
I love life. If not just for women, for the fact that no matter what we do, simply 'being' is satisfying enough.
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.
O that that earth which kept the world in awe
Should patch a wall t'expel the winter's flaw. -- Hamlet, Shakespeare
Life is great. If nothing else for the fact that you know no matter how much you will fuck up one day, or how terrible everything will seem, it will end. It will all be over. You can work your hardest to provide for your family; break your back to achieve rank and status; and when you go to bed at night, you close your eyes, much in the way the world closes it's own on you someday. You connect to your dreams, everything you have experienced swirling in a stew of mixed images--memories, passions, loves, losses--and then the inevitable happens. You don't wake up. You don't have another chance to say, 'Woah, I had a dream about that the other day.' You become the nothingness that you've always been a part of, permanently, although no one stopped to realize that you were nothing already. They didn't stop to think that they were nothing as well.
Why the morbid topic? Perhaps it is the procrastinators last salvation. In a world fueled by man-made interests, enraptured by ethical and philosophical discourse, you know the question on everyone's mind is 'Why do anything at all?' You can do literally nothing and wither away, or you can do everything and the same will occur. So in a world where people are determined by how close and far they are from sanity and insanity, why not try insanity for the hell of it? Why be conservative in a world that is begging you to liberal? We've all only lived this life once, how do we know what the best path is? Why be consumed by jealousy, why care at all?
Women.
For women: men.
There is only one thing that we revolve around. Women are the earth men are the sun. This isn't a new tradition. Without each other, they are nothing. The earth becomes a floating rock, cold, lifeless and the sun, without something to burn for burns for no one. Would the sun exist without the earth? Could the woman or man exist without the opposite? Women make great men, women make themselves great--but would women make great women, or men make great men? Could two Earths strive together? Would two suns be too hot, consumed by their own desire to burn hotter than the other? Our entire world exists on the duality of everything. With patience there is anger, "for fear there is a heart, to doubt, a mind" (Cummings). For every dawn there is dusk. In life, we need death. As a man, you need a woman. As a woman, you need a man. Apart from the Christian ideal that heterosexuality is essential to the progression of mankind, it is also quintessential to nature.
So what is the meaning of life? Can there be enough balance in a single sentence to answer that question completely? The meaning of life is a woman, but not so much as the woman is the end of life once you've been with her. She should invigorate and refresh all that you've made for yourself. When your day comes, you had two hearts, two souls mixed together--she the Earth, you the sun. With your warmth she is given life, weathering the seasons of her spirit, as you and her thrive from the other--and everything that she is, makes you burn.
I love life. If not just for women, for the fact that no matter what we do, simply 'being' is satisfying enough.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Text: Stress
It's interesting to think about stress. You understand that the things that stress you out seem to be larger than they really are, yet you can't escape feeling a little anxiety. You also realize that once your situation resolves itself one way or the other, you look back on it and chuckle wondering why you were even stressed in the first place. I was thinking back to a particular moment in my life the other day when I was maybe only 10 or 11, playing in a river that was surrounded by the borders of my mom's trailer park. Many days I spent finding adventures, usually with a companion, whether it was my uncle's dog or a good buddy, and all the while I never had a care in the world. My biggest worry was making it back in time for dinner, but that wasn't a huge issue. Everyday I found new things to do and life was good. I never, at that point, thought I would be at this spot in my life now (that was just a neutral statement it shouldn't imply that my current situation is good or bad).
So why are things stressful? What is the essence of stress? The things that should stress me out don't and the little things do. I stress myself out with moderate goals I set for myself, when all I really need to do is accept how great life really is. You meet extraordinary people everywhere, people who befriend you, love you, and want to know you -- or hell, even be with you forever. I think the important thing to realize here is that you must find individual happiness and resolve your own stressful issues before they make you compromise who you are. If you don't find that happy medium in your life, then you end up punching dartboards after a few beers, and the once happy places in your life are also consumed by your stress. Sometimes just taking a deep breath and finding value in all the things you have helps to calm you down. You wake up one day and you realize that instead of stressing yourself out over a pending Philosophy paper that you have a beautiful girl who loves you. You realize that you have a ton of family and friends who admire your sense of humor, intelligence, and any other trait you feel boosts your esteem. You realize that if you didn't have these tiny stresses and all the things that surround you giving you difficult decisions to make and life choices to take on, your life would be about as dull as an Old Chicago regular who drinks a bottle of Corona and plays Golden Tee until it's dark out.
On a side note, I was accepted into the School of Journalism and Mass Communication at CU. Apparently that is an honor, but I don't really feel like I've done much to get into CU or the school itself. You won't hear me complain though. I look forward to whatever this change does for my future.
So why are things stressful? What is the essence of stress? The things that should stress me out don't and the little things do. I stress myself out with moderate goals I set for myself, when all I really need to do is accept how great life really is. You meet extraordinary people everywhere, people who befriend you, love you, and want to know you -- or hell, even be with you forever. I think the important thing to realize here is that you must find individual happiness and resolve your own stressful issues before they make you compromise who you are. If you don't find that happy medium in your life, then you end up punching dartboards after a few beers, and the once happy places in your life are also consumed by your stress. Sometimes just taking a deep breath and finding value in all the things you have helps to calm you down. You wake up one day and you realize that instead of stressing yourself out over a pending Philosophy paper that you have a beautiful girl who loves you. You realize that you have a ton of family and friends who admire your sense of humor, intelligence, and any other trait you feel boosts your esteem. You realize that if you didn't have these tiny stresses and all the things that surround you giving you difficult decisions to make and life choices to take on, your life would be about as dull as an Old Chicago regular who drinks a bottle of Corona and plays Golden Tee until it's dark out.
On a side note, I was accepted into the School of Journalism and Mass Communication at CU. Apparently that is an honor, but I don't really feel like I've done much to get into CU or the school itself. You won't hear me complain though. I look forward to whatever this change does for my future.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Text: Motivation
It is tough to motivate yourself to do anything productive when your life is going well. When you're sitting around with too much idle time, you tend to try to be over-productive - at least I do anyway - and it never really pans out as I intend. I frequently interest myself with the idea of becoming a master artist, writer, actor, or I try to settle with less physically interactive activities like reading. Then, I inevitably fall short of my goal due to my (what Lisa claims is an inherent trait in everyone) self-proclaimed form of ADD. I wish I could seriously stick with something -- or does everyone have this problem? Does a writer sit down and for 2 years do nothing but write a book? I find that hardly likely, but I still wonder if there is something particularly wrong with my attention span - it's a curse that it is so short.
On a brighter note, I have been reading several books per the recommendation of Lisa. Don Quixote, Catch-22, and The Confederacy of Dunces. All of them are inspirational for me in the sense that I hope they lend me the guideline to write my own story someday. I believe that my life, the big joke that it seems to be sometimes, is something worth scribbling down. The more I read and the more I practice writing will hopefully allow me to find my own voice.
I also wonder at times if my newfound interests hinder my ability to be productive. I have never had this much alcohol in my life until I plugged myself into Old Chicago. I have been there since August, so for quite a while now, and ever since, I feel like I have beat the hell out of my liver. I don't have any complaints, per se, but I wonder if I gave myself more free time in the evenings to read, write, etc. if I wouldn't be on path to some form of success. Part of me feels that I need school to help define my style and educate me on a variety of things that will assist me in writing -- but the other part of me feels that it isn't really necessary. Everyone writes about his or her own personal experience, but how do you find the underlying message you want to convey? It's all very tricky. I feel as though I need to use school to figure out what style I would feel most comfortable with and also to usher thoughts my way that could be potentially inspirational.
So beyond that, what's new with other things in my life? Well, the most prominent thing in my life right now is gearing up to move to New York. I have never seriously considered moving out of the state, for a few reasons, but none related to the fact that I am not a risk-taker. New York means a lot to me -- right now it is mostly a cleansing of a past life, one that I have spent entirely in Colorado. I am not expecting to find different people in New York; everyone has the same basic needs. What I am expecting to find is a gateway into happiness...because in Colorado things that do not make me happy surround me. Things have changed so much since I left high school and nothing seems to have connected with me. Not even going to the University of Colorado. It was a temporary change that allowed me to feel intelligent and also gave me the assurance that I was working towards a career. Even after two semesters there, hanging around in the transitory period between Pre-Journalism and the J-school, I am still curious if it's what I want to do. So this proposition to go to New York is such an extraordinary opportunity -- especially sharing it with the girl I love more than anything.
But where do I draw the line in just ditching everything and running away? That is technically what I am doing, right? I feel partly like that is true, but I also feel like people don't need excuses to change. If they are sinking in the drama-quicksand around them with family, work, friends, then why not? People are always changing something, whether its their wardrobe, hair color, or whatever physical attribute they think they can modify -- it is just a way of reinventing themselves so that they can fit trends, or find self-identity when they feel they lack it. So I look at this more as a makeover to my once bland life, one that until I met Lisa had been filled with less risk, less adventure...one that Lisa has inadvertently seasoned with her own outlook on her life. Don't get me wrong, she is not putting choices and thoughts into my head, she is merely offering a different perspective, one that is healthy, so that I can bust out of this "Colorado-shell" and make something of myself. With her, I feel more confident, more like anything in the world is possible for me to achieve -- even things that I would normally discount because of its cost, like traveling. I enjoy myself so much more and I enjoy life ten times what I used to now that I have found someone like her.
This isn't a kiss-ass post to Lisa. I haven't done anything wrong that I need to compensate some compliments to how she lives her life--I just wanted to show some appreciation to how much she has influenced me positively in the last few paragraphs. I also wanted to express some of my thoughts about New York. I still have my reservations about the risks, but those are things that work out with time. We live everyday with the worst luck just at our heels, but we needn't run any faster from it, we simply have to walk the pace we're used to, journeying through the world we're born in--learning, loving, experiencing...the world is an amazing place, when you share it with someone who completes that missing part of your life, what else could you possibly need?
On a brighter note, I have been reading several books per the recommendation of Lisa. Don Quixote, Catch-22, and The Confederacy of Dunces. All of them are inspirational for me in the sense that I hope they lend me the guideline to write my own story someday. I believe that my life, the big joke that it seems to be sometimes, is something worth scribbling down. The more I read and the more I practice writing will hopefully allow me to find my own voice.
I also wonder at times if my newfound interests hinder my ability to be productive. I have never had this much alcohol in my life until I plugged myself into Old Chicago. I have been there since August, so for quite a while now, and ever since, I feel like I have beat the hell out of my liver. I don't have any complaints, per se, but I wonder if I gave myself more free time in the evenings to read, write, etc. if I wouldn't be on path to some form of success. Part of me feels that I need school to help define my style and educate me on a variety of things that will assist me in writing -- but the other part of me feels that it isn't really necessary. Everyone writes about his or her own personal experience, but how do you find the underlying message you want to convey? It's all very tricky. I feel as though I need to use school to figure out what style I would feel most comfortable with and also to usher thoughts my way that could be potentially inspirational.
So beyond that, what's new with other things in my life? Well, the most prominent thing in my life right now is gearing up to move to New York. I have never seriously considered moving out of the state, for a few reasons, but none related to the fact that I am not a risk-taker. New York means a lot to me -- right now it is mostly a cleansing of a past life, one that I have spent entirely in Colorado. I am not expecting to find different people in New York; everyone has the same basic needs. What I am expecting to find is a gateway into happiness...because in Colorado things that do not make me happy surround me. Things have changed so much since I left high school and nothing seems to have connected with me. Not even going to the University of Colorado. It was a temporary change that allowed me to feel intelligent and also gave me the assurance that I was working towards a career. Even after two semesters there, hanging around in the transitory period between Pre-Journalism and the J-school, I am still curious if it's what I want to do. So this proposition to go to New York is such an extraordinary opportunity -- especially sharing it with the girl I love more than anything.
But where do I draw the line in just ditching everything and running away? That is technically what I am doing, right? I feel partly like that is true, but I also feel like people don't need excuses to change. If they are sinking in the drama-quicksand around them with family, work, friends, then why not? People are always changing something, whether its their wardrobe, hair color, or whatever physical attribute they think they can modify -- it is just a way of reinventing themselves so that they can fit trends, or find self-identity when they feel they lack it. So I look at this more as a makeover to my once bland life, one that until I met Lisa had been filled with less risk, less adventure...one that Lisa has inadvertently seasoned with her own outlook on her life. Don't get me wrong, she is not putting choices and thoughts into my head, she is merely offering a different perspective, one that is healthy, so that I can bust out of this "Colorado-shell" and make something of myself. With her, I feel more confident, more like anything in the world is possible for me to achieve -- even things that I would normally discount because of its cost, like traveling. I enjoy myself so much more and I enjoy life ten times what I used to now that I have found someone like her.
This isn't a kiss-ass post to Lisa. I haven't done anything wrong that I need to compensate some compliments to how she lives her life--I just wanted to show some appreciation to how much she has influenced me positively in the last few paragraphs. I also wanted to express some of my thoughts about New York. I still have my reservations about the risks, but those are things that work out with time. We live everyday with the worst luck just at our heels, but we needn't run any faster from it, we simply have to walk the pace we're used to, journeying through the world we're born in--learning, loving, experiencing...the world is an amazing place, when you share it with someone who completes that missing part of your life, what else could you possibly need?
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Text: J-School
It's that time again. No, not annual bathe a mexican day, silly. It's school time! I love mexicans.
See? piso mojado
I'm signed up for the second round of my pre-requisite courses in order to continue my Journalism major and Italian minor. What's funny is that my family, namely my mother and grandma, thought I would probably do something with computers. In fact, everyone I know seems to ask me "I thought you were going into computers?" In which I promptly reply "I guess all the jobs playing Kings Quest VIII were filled." No, I've never replied with that, but I don't understand why playing a couple of computer games qualified me as an IBM motherboard programmer.
Journalism is a little funky. It is one of the harder schools to get into and stay in at CU. You have the ability to apply twice annually. You must have met the minimum requirements before you can do this however. Which includes a competitive GPA (3.3+?), the completion of two pre-requisite courses, and a convincing 500 word essay. After you've applied, you are notified several months later whether or not you were admitted with roughly 200 other students. I am seeking a degree in Journalism with an emphasis on News Editorial.
My ideal job after graduation would most likely be to work for National Geographic. I am hoping that by learning Italian I not only increase my awareness and understanding of other Latin based languages, but that I acquire a job that allows me to travel. That's really the summary of my academic career at this point. It's not entirely interesting. That's why I am going to switch over to the Chronicles of Sweetwater now.
-----------------------------------
Chronicles of Sweetwater
Through the mist of 12 o'clock bar smoke lingers the mixed voices of Sweetwater regulars. The rush of three 5'4" waitresses that seem to disappear and reappear through the myriad of people at average height are serving the usual crowd. It typically includes: Devereux, Old Chicago, homeless bikers, horny moms, bug-eyed former sharpshooters that swear they make a living playing shuffleboard, and bar-wenches that are apolstered sometimes with a jail-stripe full-body bathing-suit that apparently is an advertisement reading "If you Karaoke Uncle Kracker I will grind with the first dirty man that hasn't bothered to look at my face yet"; don't forget overly-tattoo'd christian fanatics, poolshark magicians, drunk bloated hitler look-a-likes and anyone else that might fit in this spectrum. The evening is devoid of the antics of a drunk step-dad, but one thing is for certain, the patron-saint of Sweetwater, Eric Walker, should not drive. He has consumed his usual 5 to 6 pitchers and 2 to 3 shots. This is the same holy formula used to transform Walker from being able to recognize basic conversational English to interrupting people with random business propositions, namely the publishing of his auto-biography as told by those who document his drunken escapades--since he can't recall.
(More to come later. Homework time.)
See? piso mojado
I'm signed up for the second round of my pre-requisite courses in order to continue my Journalism major and Italian minor. What's funny is that my family, namely my mother and grandma, thought I would probably do something with computers. In fact, everyone I know seems to ask me "I thought you were going into computers?" In which I promptly reply "I guess all the jobs playing Kings Quest VIII were filled." No, I've never replied with that, but I don't understand why playing a couple of computer games qualified me as an IBM motherboard programmer.
Journalism is a little funky. It is one of the harder schools to get into and stay in at CU. You have the ability to apply twice annually. You must have met the minimum requirements before you can do this however. Which includes a competitive GPA (3.3+?), the completion of two pre-requisite courses, and a convincing 500 word essay. After you've applied, you are notified several months later whether or not you were admitted with roughly 200 other students. I am seeking a degree in Journalism with an emphasis on News Editorial.
My ideal job after graduation would most likely be to work for National Geographic. I am hoping that by learning Italian I not only increase my awareness and understanding of other Latin based languages, but that I acquire a job that allows me to travel. That's really the summary of my academic career at this point. It's not entirely interesting. That's why I am going to switch over to the Chronicles of Sweetwater now.
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Chronicles of Sweetwater
Through the mist of 12 o'clock bar smoke lingers the mixed voices of Sweetwater regulars. The rush of three 5'4" waitresses that seem to disappear and reappear through the myriad of people at average height are serving the usual crowd. It typically includes: Devereux, Old Chicago, homeless bikers, horny moms, bug-eyed former sharpshooters that swear they make a living playing shuffleboard, and bar-wenches that are apolstered sometimes with a jail-stripe full-body bathing-suit that apparently is an advertisement reading "If you Karaoke Uncle Kracker I will grind with the first dirty man that hasn't bothered to look at my face yet"; don't forget overly-tattoo'd christian fanatics, poolshark magicians, drunk bloated hitler look-a-likes and anyone else that might fit in this spectrum. The evening is devoid of the antics of a drunk step-dad, but one thing is for certain, the patron-saint of Sweetwater, Eric Walker, should not drive. He has consumed his usual 5 to 6 pitchers and 2 to 3 shots. This is the same holy formula used to transform Walker from being able to recognize basic conversational English to interrupting people with random business propositions, namely the publishing of his auto-biography as told by those who document his drunken escapades--since he can't recall.
(More to come later. Homework time.)
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Text: Mike's house
Mike's house is like an old bar that war veterans gather at to reminisce about the obstacles they have faced in battle. Some of the soldiers are stronger now and others are weaker. They all share something in common though--Brotherhood. There is a highly regarded, yet hardly spoken about, covenant that exists between these men. They have all taken their chances with relationships and there have been some casualties. Others have remained steadfast in their pursuit of happiness and are successful. Then there are kids like Dan and Steve who are content with their single-life and truly wish to remain loyal to their friends. Yet when one man falls or one man rises in triumph at any complication all of the other brothers are witness and no brother ever abandons another. [Exception: One soldier abandoned a whole regiment of brothers in the mountains to pursue aforementioned happiness. Oops.]
This reminds me as to why I love New Years Eve. It is a chance to really reflect on what Mike's house means to everyone. It also makes me wonder if everyone in the world has a sanctuary such as this. For the last 6 years Mike's house has been a refuge for Dave, Mike and I. Don't label us as an inner-circle or on any different level than anyone else in the group, just the guys who originally lived together and created the bridge among friendships. Over the 6-year stretch we have definitely encountered a unique variety of friends, some of which still contribute to the bulk of the regiment.
We have Sean, Steve, Huy, Mike and I that have been regulars at this old rendezvous. Frequently we have Dan, Dave, Lil' Huy, Rick & Jeff [if poker is going down] and when applicable, wives, fiancés, and girlfriends present themselves. Except that it hasn't really ever been about who is with who at Mike's. Everyone is individual. Keep your insecurities at home and step aside from who you're with because nothing is safe from the brothers who gather. People either hate Mike's or love Mike's and even have the same love/hate relationship with Mike himself. That is until they really get to know him and his home.
Last night I had a talk with the codger himself (who turned ancient last night). His words prompted me to write about this today. It is important for a place like this to exist. A place where friends can come and go as they please but no one ever forgets who you are and what you've done. A place where brotherhood is eternal no matter if you fuck up, throw up, or get thrown out. When you've tried and failed you always have friends to mend you and throw you back into battle. The New Years brought a reminder that I have established some amazing friends over the last 6 years alone. I look forward to what 2006 will bring as far as new friendships and refreshing the tales of the old.
Happy New Year everyone. Victory is imminent.
This reminds me as to why I love New Years Eve. It is a chance to really reflect on what Mike's house means to everyone. It also makes me wonder if everyone in the world has a sanctuary such as this. For the last 6 years Mike's house has been a refuge for Dave, Mike and I. Don't label us as an inner-circle or on any different level than anyone else in the group, just the guys who originally lived together and created the bridge among friendships. Over the 6-year stretch we have definitely encountered a unique variety of friends, some of which still contribute to the bulk of the regiment.
We have Sean, Steve, Huy, Mike and I that have been regulars at this old rendezvous. Frequently we have Dan, Dave, Lil' Huy, Rick & Jeff [if poker is going down] and when applicable, wives, fiancés, and girlfriends present themselves. Except that it hasn't really ever been about who is with who at Mike's. Everyone is individual. Keep your insecurities at home and step aside from who you're with because nothing is safe from the brothers who gather. People either hate Mike's or love Mike's and even have the same love/hate relationship with Mike himself. That is until they really get to know him and his home.
Last night I had a talk with the codger himself (who turned ancient last night). His words prompted me to write about this today. It is important for a place like this to exist. A place where friends can come and go as they please but no one ever forgets who you are and what you've done. A place where brotherhood is eternal no matter if you fuck up, throw up, or get thrown out. When you've tried and failed you always have friends to mend you and throw you back into battle. The New Years brought a reminder that I have established some amazing friends over the last 6 years alone. I look forward to what 2006 will bring as far as new friendships and refreshing the tales of the old.
Happy New Year everyone. Victory is imminent.
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