Onto the job thing...

People have asked, thus do I answer... There comes a time in a man’s life when the threat of old age and the din of obligation bespeaks anchors, chains, and all of the portents of settling down. There comes a time when the nature of the world in all of its carnivorous splendor demands forethought and a choice—the resolution of more secure and stable path. It is in this moment, at the edge of the precipice, that one must ask the most difficult of questions: Just who in the hell am I, and what pray tell will make me happy?

As many of you know, I have been teetering on the edge of this cliff for some time, slowly wavering towards a self actualized fully informed decision. Over the past year my travels both across the States and in Brazil have afforded valuable personal discovery time, allowing for insight into the structure and dimension of the who behind the me.

Professionally speaking I have begun to narrow my field of interest, readying myself for that great leap of commitment into career specialization both within and after school. Two choices now stand before me, two vastly different realms of thought and vocation that I am eager to explore. They are:

Museum Studies

and, of all things…

Law

To pursue a career in the museum field seems, at first glance, a natural choice for me. I have devoted the last five years of my volunteer and work time in museums, and have enjoyed it almost every step of the way. There are many aspects of the field – working close with the public, exhibit design, interpretation of historic and cultural materials – that I believe I am well suited for. The work is creative, challenging, and would likely be for the most part, intellectually sustaining. Where I fault it, however, is in the ever critical economic arena. By definition museums are non-profit agencies. They spend the great majority of their efforts fighting for monetary hand outs, scraps if you will, and are adept at finding ingenious ways to NOT pay people. As archaic as it sounds, my experience over the last few years has turned me into somewhat of a traditionalist in that I want to be the alpha provider, the ‘man of the house’, in my future domesticity. In the end, I could probably make a decent living doing the museum thing, but I question whether decent is adequate.

If I were to pursue this field, CU offers a great program that I could apply to next fall. I would likely focus in the administrative realm, rather than the curatorial realm, and given a few decades would probably win relative comfort, job security, and that decent salary (I dunno…maybe around 50 grand with benefits).

Now, the law school proposal has been consuming my thoughts of late. The idea was sparked by an off hand comment from my mother, and also by an experience I had in Brazil. While in Salvador, I ended up volunteering for a housing project/social foundation in the Simões Filho municipality. There, a public prosecutor by the name of Hortênsia Gomes Pinho had taken on a steel production company, which had essentially destroyed the surrounding environs and living condition for people in the region. The civil investigation and following suit produced, in the end, a substantial flow of cash which enabled social organizers to create a housing project for the afflicted. It was, in one word, inspiring. I was doing the anthropology thing at the time, writing about project, but realized even with my ‘mightier than the sword’ pen who the true movers and shakers were.

This thought in mind, with little knowledge of what a career in law would entail, I headed off to the CU school of law, the newest and shiniest building on the Boulder campus. Having spent my undergraduate years tucked away in dilapidated anthropology and humanities buildings, I was impressed by the life and hmmm…currency of the place. A little sprout of thought popped in my head and that was…gee self, maybe you could do better. Maybe being a shut-in in potentially dying institutions isn’t for you.

Doing some research online, two areas of law were of great interest to me. First, cultural heritage preservation law (protection of archaeological sites, matters of cultural identity, etc.) and second, indigenous law. Both would allow me to stay within the circle of studies that I have, for so long, been interested. So on first glance the idea of law sounded interesting, palatable, perhaps even fruitful, but what of the reality?

Well, doing more research, I found this to be the average view of law school and the life trend of the lawyer:

“Law School Summary: Born ----->genetic defect ------>desire to be a lawyer -----> take LSAT -----> accepted into law school ------> three years of torment ------>rest of life in torment ------> Die”

Not so positive, eh? While my research is at best superficial, most books and opinions that I come across are of the vein “my god what have I done to myself” and “how can I get out of the profession of law before it kills me”. First outlook looks gloomy, yet I continue to ponder.

Now, as for the CU school of law, my chances of being accepted are staggering. The school itself is top tier, meaning it’s expensive and contains lots of people way to smart for their own good. Admission quotas dictate that roughly 75% of the very small entering class must be women and minorities, leaving the last 25% of white males to fight viciously over the limited seating (as a side note, I’ve been contemplating what it means to be a minority, and if the socially fabricated term applies to me, considering there are three generations of “latinos” in the fam). If I do get in, I must contend with three years of hell, even if the subject fascinates me and I am a 100% enthralled. Oh yes, and despite the stereotype, the great majority of lawyers out there, except in the largest and most well known firms, don’t really make that much cash. I could anticipate roughly $60,000 out of school if I land a good job.

Ah, the realities of reality. Blah.

So with all this in mind, this is my plan. Over the next year, until I can apply to one of these programs, I will continue to probe, search, and discover which option is best for me. I will be conducting interviews with people in these respective fields, and doing lots of reading on the matter, to “edumacate” myself properly.

The leap ahead is large, vast, and only with confidence and the hope of better things can I take that first step onward.

(I think this is me thinking. I think.)

Savvy Springs

Headed up to Colorado Springs for some partying with friends and strangers. Came back to a house full of other peeps looking to hit Pearl on a Saturday night. Spent the rest of Sunday working and recovering. Ahhh, the vicariousness of youth.

(Beer pong with some girl. I swept the match with a last cup slam on the final play.)

(It ain't easy bein' cheesy.)

(This is my drunk face.)

(Checked out Garden of the God's on the following day. The weather was perfect, calm cool seventies. The place was absolutely stunning, with large granite and limestone rock formations pushing up from a seeming nowhere. All very cool.)

(Little did he know that the rock was just seconds from tumbling.)

(Like I said, from out of nowhere.)

(This was supposed to be one of those impressive climbing pics, but my photographer accidently caught the edge of the floor.)

(Saturday in Boulder. Killing time in the Catacombs.)

(I was saddled with being the DD. No booze rockets to keep me awake.)

(Check out the yarn ball I'm arm rolling around my shoulder. The crowd was impressed by that one.)

Wyoming Whistles

Caught between two ends of the curved bow, the string of the berimbau clattered loudly, resonating across the flat open space of the hall. Two hands, fluttering to attention, wrap a worn silence into measured song, breaking the cords of the instrument into a steady rise and fall. With feet placed firmly on the ground the teacher sat at mid center, his white pants and loose green shirt fluttering in the mountain wind. Smiling slyly, a song breaks free from his lips, sailing quickly into an ocean of student voices that add weight to his cry.

“Vou dizer a meu senhor, que a manteiga derramou.”
"A manteiga não é minha, a manteiga é de Ioio”.

With a slight nod of his head, other instruments – an agogo, atabaque, and pandeiros – join the fray, rasping, drumming, and gonging to an unhurried beat.

“Vou dizer a meu senhor, que a manteiga derramou.”
"A manteiga do patrão, caiu no chão e derramou.”

Music well in time, the bateria pushing a dynamic energy, two players join the circle crouching beneath the seat of the teachers lead berimbau. All in place and the roda now formed, the capoeiristas breath in the music, listening to the beat that would signal the opening of their play. Respeito, responsabilidade, segurança, malícia, liberdade—a handshake passes between them speaking of such things. Eyes now locked, they begin to move. To dance. An evasion, a kick, a volley slipping between them. One sequence leads to another, as they stand, and dip, and sway.

The chorus builds and is filled again.

“Vou dizer a meu senhor, que a manteiga derramou.”
“A manteiga não é minha, a manteiga derramou.”

Striking to the lean of a different beat, the match soon slows, and the berimbau signals the end of the game. Propelled by the magic of structure without form, a catalyst born of oppression on the back of a stolen kingdom, a child born to an old world and matured in the new, two players once again take center stage. The teacher smiles, the wind blows, and the dance is lived again.

* * *

This past weekend marked a fun little jaunt for the Capoeira gang, heading up to the mountains for some delicious r & r. A few weeks back, after a busy sweat session in the basement of the CU economics building, flyers of a rather adventurous nature were passed around the room, inviting the willing out to the Flying X ranch in Wyoming. Alex, the blonde haired blue eyed patron of the trip, whose mom held a part in the 40 square mile estate, seemed happy to share in the natural wonder of her long time vacationary abode, welcoming friends and family to join the ride. Three weeks later, after a number of “bless me, my head hurts”-inhuman-but-blissfully-fun practice sessions, the gang found its way to Alex’s place, all quivering and ready to go. After a mother goose rattle snake and trash pickup talk by Alex’s mom, we piled into our vehicles, heading out towards the immense open greenery of northeastern Colorado.

The drive north toward the table top mesas of southern Wyoming was full of interesting sites, not excluding….snow fences!....buffalo statues!...cow pies!...and oh yes, a town called Chugwater (water not included). Michael, Shem, Mrs. Tiitola and I (coolest last name ever), blasted out some Aphex on the stereo, and made contorted faces when the rest of our cohorts drove by. If there is one thing this trip has taught me, it is that we are wise and mature beyond our years.

In little over 2hrs time, we found ourselves amidst the mountain badlands, awe struck by the natural vicissitudes of the sky (i.e. it got rainy, and then unrainy right quick). As it turns out, the topography of Flying X looks exceptionally like the weathered rock bulbouses of the Wichita Mountains. Taking the long windy dirt road up to the central site, one gathers the impression of an age and size long warn by the ravages of time, like the emaciated skeleton of a dinosaur once ribbed in muscle and flesh—now only a pile of ash and bone. Douglas fir and field grasses spread out across the flatter plains, and free roaming horses wandered their open space. It was on first impression a utopia, but an empty kind, devoid of the greater flocks of our bipedal kind.

Only staying one night, it was in our best interest to make good use of our time. A well isolated camping spot was chosen about a mile an a half from the ranch compound. After tents were set, the ever entertaining side that is David mischievously broke out some juggling gear; fire staff and poi included. What followed was an impromptu renaissance faire—an out of place juggle standoff where the unskilled animated the inanimate, hoping to avoid sharp accidents to the face. Add to the mix some beer lubricant, and lot’s of horse manure on the ground, and one has the makings of a good time!

But anyway…

Later in the evening, after a ruff and tumble climb up the nearest mountain, we settled back into our social selves looking for dinner and entertainment at the main cabin. Boasting a large square footage of grill space by the outside patio, we chucked some meat on the fire, drank some margarita mix, and dutifully stuffed ourselves with chips and dip. Not intending to settle on being square, bottles of beer and vodka were produced, the mood changing from dinner nicety to all out war. The downstairs game room was invaded, and many a high moment lived fighting for the ping pong or foosball dynasty.

After that bit of fun, after deciding it was time to do what it is that we do, we headed back up to the patio for a solid round of jogando Capoeira. I learned the important lesson that, as a martial art, Capoeira is one of the few that can be played funny on the rumy. Slight intoxication actually helped loosen up my game, allowing for a more liberated if not less calculated movement (which is good when one is too novice to actually calculate). After many beautiful games, the night turned into a free for all of sex, drugs, and rock & roll…actually no, but we did play some pool volleyball and do a little congo drumming back at camp. Come on people, we’re not that interesting.

The following day followed the first, with lots of beautiful weather and fun activates. A large contingent of the group opted to stay at camp, while the others ventured off on a horseback ride around the property. Those with hangovers nursed them, and those without guiltlessly traversed the cool mountain air. When all was said and done, the group rolled out of camp around 3:30, leaving not a trace or scratch of the overnight stay.

So it was with but a wave that Flying X passed behind us, a pleasant memory on life’s great horizon…how’s that for an ending???

Many thanks Alex!

(Horse Manure Campsite)

(Eamon's t-shirt says it all)

(How do you spell cheers in Finnish?)

(Crew climb)

(Not at the top and already elated)

(Happy with her mountain)

(Last year, Everest. This year, the world!)

(King of the mountain anyone?)

(Where's Waldo?)

more pics later....

Allright already!!!

New posts, coming soon. Yes, I'm just a lazy bastard.

Birthdays are Weird

Out with Doug. Ate a bit. Drank a bit. Did the birthday thing.

(Went to some Mexican restaurant. Sometimes you feel old on your birthday, othertimes you hang out with 15 people in their 30's, and suddently, you feel younger! Claudia, Doug, and Helen to my right. Claudia is the first Brazilian I met in D.C. The portuguese and Brazil worldcup match on tv were fun.)

(No one messes with the Leo. Especially on his birthday.)

(Bethesda bar. Compulsory peace sign. Who knows.)

(Ladies and gentlemen, this is a subway....or at least the stairs leading to it. The escalator was four stories tall. I was 25 when I got on the thing, and like 26 or 27 something when I got off.)

(Yeah, so, I ended up taking a lovely lady home. She didn't talk much but she was a damn good listener. Don't get any wild ideas, that thing beneath my hand is actually a pen. No really, I don't swing that way.)

Maryland Madhouse

When I arrived in Maryland after a ten hour drive, I was bleary eyed. Tender red spots had appeared on the contact points where my limbs rubbed against the car, and my bad hip was being mildly cantankerous. I slipped off the highway onto Father Hurley road, driving past large apartment complexes until finding my own nook among nooks. Spotting my friend Doug, who was absent mindedly shining his business shoes under the first floor entryway, I happily got out of the car. He greeted me with a smile, a cold beer, and a new key to the small little domicile that we were now destined to share.

As I came to find in the coming week, my new residence was located in Germantown—a place that I have unaffectionately dubbed, suburban hell. Germantown is located on the far, far outskirts of D.C., about a 20min drive from the outmost subway point. To get into town requires the iron clad will of a metropolitan trekker, where traffic, standing lines, and pricy travel fees come into play. If I were to find employment near the Mall, where many of the Smithsonian Museums reside, my commute would require over two hours of daily travel time, and at a price of about ten dollars a day. In a given year, at full time employment, that would roughly equal 520 hrs of lost time and $2600 in travel fees. Yum. But moving any closer to the city would only get more expensive, at least when the cost of living is concerned.

Germantown itself is a spread out mass of franchises and strip malls, with no real identifying or unique features. All of the elements that I have come to dislike about America – the ever rush mentality, the copy clone appearance – it’s all blaringly represented right here. Only a week in, I’m starting to truly pang for Brazil, in all of its third world glory. I miss the friends and adventures, and fear losing myself to the absurd commonality of this menial kingdom.

But that’s just me despairing. Being in a new area, removed from your social circle, with nothing to do on your birthday will do that to you. Been putting myself in my own personal hell, lately, and its starting to wear on me.

But, anyway, on the brighter side of things, there are about a million cool things to do in this place if one can stand the travel. Doug and I hit Adams Morgan last Friday, running into the young, hip, bar hopping crowd of the city. It was my first subway ride, ever, and I was amazed by the underground track ways, the ever distant city lights, and the diverse crowd at our destination. We visited the National Mall on Sunday, checking out the National Archives, and the Lincoln Memorial—covering long distances on foot in the humid Washington air.

On the job front, I have decided to try and get at least some local part time work, hoping to avoid some of the daily commute. Interning for the Smithsonian, as I had originally intended, is currently out of the picture, having now missed the June summer deadline for applications. Yesterday, I applied for a full-time administrative position at a local area community center for the arts. The place was first on my list, being the closest thing to a cultural center/museum in the neighborhood. The position is full time, and pays 20 grand a year, which while being more than I’ve ever made at a job, is a pittance salary for such an expensive area (someone at a bar told me last night that the county was the second or third most expensive county in the country, next to Orangeville and Silicon Valley). As I look at it though, the job is way better than working at Friday’s, and offers me some much needed health benefits. I’ve been thinking about prostituting myself on the side, just to make a little cash. But that could be neither here nor there.

Spending most of my time in the apartment, getting resumes ready and looking for jobs, I am already starting to go a little out of my mind. If this job thing goes through, I’m going to start the indispensable extracurricular routine that has kept me grounded. I’m thinking of doing 3-4 days at the gym, one night of samba classes at the Brazilian American institute in NW D.C., one night of salsa classes at the art center where I’m applying, and kendo on the weekends. Best way to start a new life is to be swept away by its current, and I’m anxious to get myself midstream.

(Hitting Doug's favorite local dive, Jaspers, after the drive.)

(Dorm style living in a one bedroom apartment. Tough but necessary steps of a transition.)

(Trying to play tetris to free up some bedroom space.)

(The kitchen table has become my study.)

(Doug and I messing around last night. That's his hand by the way.)

(Crazy cats, to cool for school.)

Getting Married to a Phone

So I signed my life over yesterday. At least two years of it anyway. Realizing that there was a blank spot on my CV when it came to a home number, and that I will begin applying for jobs this week, I decided to take the plunge and get my first US cell phone. All things considered, I think I have held out as long as humanly possible. In Brazil, I was amazed by the flirtation and networking potential afforded by the device, and having purchased and madly used my first one there, I suppose I can never look back.

So here it is.

Beautiful no? I had to sign a two year contract with T mobile, which I swear was like throwing a wedding ring on my finger—just WAY TO MUCH COMMITMENT in my opinion. Considering the prison sentence, I opted to spend the big bucks and get the companies nicer model, the RAZR V3. It’s mp3 ready, blue chip worthy, and sports nice visuals and a camera. It’s one of the only all metal phones on the market, and is great for its slim profile. Seeing that I don’t carry around a purse or man bag, I must insist on something that will sit inconspicuously in the pocket.

For all of you better friends out there, my number is:

..............

This will not be left on my blog long, considering it is public. If you find a blank space between this and the last sentence, email me and I’ll send it to you.

And if you are an identity stealing scallywag, or a black hearted spammer, be forewarned. I’m on the do not call list, I live in a place where hiring a lawyer is like eating cheesecake – way to damn easy – and I have large knuckles and knack for kicking ass.

My birthday is coming up on Thurs, the 22^nd. If you are not one of those things, I look forward to your call.

Gone With the Wind

Lo and behold I reached Maryland last night and am now parked in my Germantown suburb apartment. With only a few hours of light under my West Coast belt, I have already come to marvel at a number of local touches—first and foremost being the diversity and frenzy of this place. Stepping out for a bite to eat, I was surprised to find myself a distinct minority, surrounded as it where by Latinos, Africans (of Africa), and Indian men and women in far eastern garb. In my opinion, uniformity offers predictability, offers boredom, so a step in the other direction is a good step for me.

I feel as I did when I first stepped into Brazil, when I awoke to the bustling streets of Salvador, and the many unknown worlds it offered. I feel overwhelmed – though in a good way – by the mystery of this place, by the sharp corners of its unfamiliarity. First days are always like stumbling around blindly in the dark, praying that you don’t run into anything too sharp or pointed.

My trip up too K-zoo was way more fun than it should have been. I stayed about a week, feeling the whole time like I was walking around in some distant memory. I insisted on keeping my homecoming unannounced, reveling in the far greater pleasure of a surprise hello. I jumped smiling into so many doorways—first my younger brothers, and then on into portals of the KVM, Wilgenholf, Doster, and many other great dynasties. I kissed old acquaintances, and shook hands with forgotten kings. Got a free lunch from Donna, Mandana, and Paula, and another by Bay (thanks guys!). Got to kick some serious Kendo ass with Terry—that was way fun. Got to throw a rip-roaring Kraftbrau horseshoe playing kegger with Alec—go bro. Got to kiss a number of lovely ladies at a bachelorette party, me being the only attending male—go team me. And with Eric, my good friend Eric, well we had a number of interesting adventures including my first Hooters experience, drinking a pitcher of Old Style Green Top beer before noon, and accosting random pedestrians with camera routines. All in all it was worlds of fun, almost enough to get sucked back into the Michigan mayhem once again.

But now, after a difficult but satisfied extrication, I now sit at (take note):

19932 Sweetgum Circle, Apt 14
Germantown, MD 20874-3781
USA

I have four months here, living with my college buddy Doug in an over-priced one bedroom place, and then plan to move closer to D.C. (in a three/four bedroom household with ERIC & SHEILA…..YES THIS MEANS YOU). I have a ridiculous amount of work to look forward to, including finding a job and applying for graduate school, all the while somehow making rent. I guess this means I can no longer play the gypsy card, that my life will become far more regulated and routine, but you can be damn sure that my adventures will continue. Life is only boring if we make out to be, and this boy hasn’t laid down his weapons yet. Nay, not quite yet.

(Ingleside Terrace. Alec's home and my wayward destination. This place has been a noted party den for years, and has provided many services to the Kalamazoo community.)

(This was hanging on the door to my room. I never quite had the answer to this one.)

(You guessed it. My feet.)

(Me and a noted trouble maker. She was my first girlfriend in the sixth grade. So fun to come back "home" and to reminisce.)

(Various peeps at my kegger. The guy in the red hat got his ass kicked later in the night by a Lakeside girl. Lakeside is like a treatment center for troubled teens. It's well known that you don't mess with the teens, and you don't mess with the employees. He thought it would be fun to tease her, and she returned by beating his face into the ground. I thought that the whole incident rather amusing.)

(um...yeah...no comment)

(Eric and I decided to f*ck around at the down town mall. We decided to be pedestryian gorilla terrorists. I assualted random people with my camera. Climbing stuff was a must too.)

(Ahhhh, good to be back in the states where fun is prohibited.)

(This is some of the random people I assaulted. I would just knock on random windows and tell people to smile. Try and catch the looks of suprise beneath the reflection.)

(Eric playing bum.)

(Drinking Old Style at The Green)

(We hit the museum and jumped valiantly through the tornado.)

I swear officer, she was the one that raped me!)

(After pool celebration at Mindy & Mandy's.)

(And who could forget, the blue moon finale.)


HA! I ROCKED THE KALAMAZOO!