That Hurt

A month prior to this monstrosity, I was a normal, energetic nineteen year old.  However, one rugby game would proceed to put me in one painful, confusing predicament.  I had withheld a passion for rugby for a couple of years before the accident.  I loved everything about it: the pain, the team work, the highlight tackles.  I loved everything about the sport and the life that went along with playing rugby: the people, the drinking, the dirty playing tricks (dump tackles, trips, cleating opposing players’ ribs in the scrum).  We were engaged in a scrimmage game against the University of Louisiana Lafayette; when I blocked an attempted pop kick by the opposing outside center, I immediately leaped over the downed center and attempted to pounce on the unguarded ball. The ball sat just over the try line.  Five points were up in the air and it was up to me to make sure those points went to my team.  I eyes widened as I tried to take this moment into comprehension, my palms clenched as I prepared to make my dash for the oblong ball, I sprang over Number 11 like a gazelle running from a pride of lions.   With my body exposed and my leg extended, one of those hungry lions fell over that Number 11 and rolled into the side of my knee causing and instant popping sound to echo throughout the field.  The game stopped;  I stopped;  I think I remember my heart stopping for an instant.  there was no doubt in my mind that something went horribly wrong.  I could still walk, but I proceeded to hobble off the field and onto the sidelines.  A group of friends and my father welcomed me as I stumbled to a sad patch of brown-green grass roots.  With one look at me, they knew something was different.  They were used to that laughing, red cheeked, bleeding, excited kid to run off that field; this time they saw a confused, depressed, limping soul plopped miserably on the edge of the field that was so special.  My knee felt like jello immediately after the bone cringing noise, but the lack of cartilage and ligaments was amplified with every step I took from the field to the sideline and the sideline to the emergency room.  Exactly a month later I woke up from possibly the most miserable surgery possible. 

One Fateful Day

Sweaty palms, a bloody nose, fingernails torn from the cuticles: these are the things I love most about rugby.  The pain is immense, but the reward is all the greater.  At the end of the game you know that you have played your heart out, not unlike the guy standing across from you; however, one of you will have the bragging rights everyone who steps onto that field desires.  To claim that your the best; that you go harder; that you take more pain.  These are things every rugby player desires.  I have that desire.  

It was an odd day in March.  A field with more brown dry spots than green.  A field with sand pits strewn throughout.  It was not pretty, but it was all that we needed to play the game.  The gritty, dirty game we all love. Rugby is not like football; there is no glamour.  It is short canvas shorts and long sleeved, collared shirts that are anything but comfortable.  But we play regardless.  

I lined up at the outside center position.  A previous game had taken longer than expected so my stretching was forgotten a solid hour ago.  Our maroon canvas uniform sat heavy on my shoulders; I really did not being on that field.  Not that day, I knew we were going to get murdered by the other team.  Our team happened to a rag-tag group of rejects gathered together to lose and claim that they played the game like champs.  Only myself and one other player possessing any skill, it was not my day.  I should have exited that field.  Like any true player of the game, I stayed.  

Halfway through the first period, I blocked a kick and leaped over the opposing inside center.  The ball laid rest on the opposite side of the try line.  My eyes widened and I rushed to touch the ball down for a try.  All I had to do was touch it.  A sudden popping sound resounds into my ears and rattles my eardrum.  I knew immediately that something went horribly wrong.  My knee was the cartilage and bone version of jello.  My rugby career was temporarily halted due to a lazy body flung into the side of my leg at full speed.  I hobbled off the field. 

Little Jesuit Boy

Going into Jesuit I was not very spiritual.  As far as church was concerned, I more or less did what I was told to do without really understanding or caring, for that matter.  I was raised Catholic, but it was latent Catholic at best.  I despised church and everything associated with it.  I think this repulsion towards church came from the fact that I was not able to question the things I did not understand.  Going to a private christian elementary school and catechism classes, I was simply told what I was to believe and why I had to believe it.  Things I did not understand were not topics that were open for discussion.  I think much of my love for Jesuit came from the fact that we were encouraged to ask questions instead of just blindly believing, and or questions were not just blown off.  The Jesuits would even explain to us how they ad questioned the same things in their younger days.  These men seemed to genuinely care about our thoughts and feelings.  We were not pushed to believe things, but rather their method of questioning and seeing God in our daily lives made me more of a believer than just being told to blindly believe.  The easy going nature of most of these men was something to be admired.  These men truly cared for each of us as an individual, for example one Jesuit would always track us down on our birthdays to make sure we got a very special happy birthday applause.  The fact that these men were all extremely learned and still humble was very appealing.  The Jesuits saw themselves as part of our student body instead of viewing students as below them.  This attitude merited or respect rather than forcing it down our throats.  I think this is why I respect the Society of Jesus more than any other religious body. 

Chuck E. T.'s

I stand in Foot Locker amazed by the selection.  There are so many options.  Green shoes, gold or yellow, sky blue or navy blue.  The colors of the rainbow are well represented on the wall packed with a hundred or more tiny, personalized shelves.  Each shelf withstands the weight of a sole display version of a foot encapsulating apparatus.  It becomes easy to get lost in the selection.

What shoe is the most “me”?  I could get the Jordan’s, but I suck at basketball.  Some Nike Donks would be a lovely asset to any collection, but I do not have a record or a potential rap career.  How about old school Adidas?  Negative, they are plain enough to not be cool and expensive enough to show that one put legitimate effort into the purchase.  I stumble upon the Vibram toe shoes and realize that these must be for individual reminiscing over the toe socks of his/her childhood.  

Weighing my options with extreme precision and intensity, I realize that the classic Chuck Taylor’s offer the best shoe for the price.  The look fresh with any ensemble.  One can run and play without any difficulty.  Getting them filthy is not an issue because they are only acceptable once they get a little dirty.  And they are extremely affordable.  

Perfection.

Jesuit

Before I entered high school, I was as impressionable as any other thirteen or fourteen year old; however, i thought i had it all figured out.  I was the leader of my own destiny, no one could tell me what to do, and i knew everything; these were only some of the bold ideas that encapsulated my young mind.  I thought i had it all figured out.  i was going to walk into high school and own the place.  Then the biggest slap in the face of my life stopped me dead in my naive tracks.  After visiting al the local Catholic school open houses, my parents decided i was going to be a “Jesuit boy.”  The problem with this is that I bled blue and gold; thats right, I was going to be a Holy Cross Tiger.  

This change of direction threw me into a frenzy.  My brother went to Holy Cross, and I am going to go to Jesuit?  the thought of this was ludicrous at the time; but, little did i know, it would be one of the greatest moves in my life.  While attending Jesuit High School, I learned three important things that I will carry with me for the rest of my life: a respect for the Society of Jesus, AMDG, the concept of being a “man for others.”  

Almost Brad Pitt

     Yeah, I would say that I have a face worth bragging about: soft blue eyes, petite nose, toddler-like bone structure.  Whats not to love? A spectacular mane of of unkempt beauty sits atop my skull.  It is basically impossible to tame enough for an actual hairstyle, but I just like to think that it fits my shoddy, messy personality.  This mane actually creeps down my face to then carpet my cheeks, chin, and neck.  I am not going to go as far as to say that it is high quality carpet either; it may remind many of that cheap, itchy indoor-outdoor carpet that gets put where people have nothing more worthwhile to cover the area.  Yeah, the smart person would shave it off; but, without any facial hair I would likely still be able to get into the movies for free.  I would say that there is just no relief for its powerful charm.  Overall, I would say that I am the best looking guy in most of my classes that I attend at an estrogen dominated college of merely a few thousand students.  Those odds are pretty hard to beat for the average guy. 

      I like to think of myself as being one of the lucky ones in life that can be considered the total package: decently good looking and in fair physical condition.  With this gleaming evidence, I like to believe that there is slightly more right with me than wrong.  If you look at the bright side, I will look a few decades younger than everyone else in my age bracket in fifty or so years.  Thats the only way I can justify having this extreme condition of baby-face.  At least I have something to look forward to; by the time I reach the mature look I dream of nightly, my mental maturity may be in the early stages of dementia. With the aforementioned, I like to think I am a damn good looking specimen.   

Felipe's

A staple of my collegiate diet is that quaint little taqueria commonly known as Felipe's.  Tucked gently behind the South Claiborne strip mall and nuzzled close to the Papa John's, Felipe's is my go-to stop for burritos, quesadillas, nachos, and tacos. 

A twelve inch wheat tortilla coated by a warm layer of melted cheese, succulent pork, and toppings gets me thinking.  This is an amazing meal for a mere five bucks.  And the atmosphere, do not get me started on the atmosphere.  The employees all smiling, a quaint pair of dining areas, and a bar for those in need form this place into a trifecta of perfection: great sevice, food, and atmosphere.  Throw me on some jalepenos, pico de gallo, cilantro, sour cream, and maybe even a little guacamole; and I am in heaven.  This guarantees that the next two to three hours will be spent in the most satisfying full possible.   I crave this dish.  I love this food.  You want to eat this delectablely simple concoction (I have even witnessed astute professors indulging in Felpe's warm, tasty goodness).

However, this was the old Felipe's.  The Felipe's is only reminiscent of the watery mouth it has left me with.  The new Felipe's is a heartless place where sour cream and quacamole, staple condiments of any good mexican cuisine, cost extra.  A place where patrons are not even afforded a water cup to wash down the heat of a jalepeno or two.  Yes, this is not the place I formerly loved.

Bounce Biggy Bounce

New Orleans is home to many amazing artistic and entertaining creations. Perhaps one of the most exciting and fun to be a part of is the bounce music scene.  With enchanting beats and an undeniably catchy repititon, there is no music like bounce music.  The sounds are hypnotic; a D.J. and an M.C. or two get the crowd bouncing.  the beats are generally borrowed for other popular songs and scratched in a way that the beat "bounces."

The dancing is more of a talent show than a dance.  Girls can end up on tables, chairs, or even booty popping on a handstand. These really are talented dancers.  By any stretch of the imagination, booty popping sounds like a relatively natural motion; but, trust me, it takes talent. 

Bounce music was an ultra-male dominated genre until recently.  Now most of the very popular M.C.'s are cross-dressers, but this is just a temporary phenonemon.  It does not take away from the wimsy of the music though.  I am hoping to become, with the help of some others, the future face of the bounce music scene.  Thats right, bounce shows are coming to a club near you (that is if your in New Orleans).  Hopefully, this fantastic, catchy genre will spread like it should; but, until then, bop biggy biggy bounce wop wop wop wop.

I remeber going to sleep only to wake up early and watch those early morning cartoons: Gumby, Rugrats, Rocko's Modern Life.  All are classics; to this day, I can still enjoy these shows.  A cute little green guy running from and/or fighting a group of square hoodlums.  the only one he can truly trust is his faithful sidekick (pony) Pokey.  The premises are in undenyably what cartoons are at heart: imaginative.  I often felt like I was the rugrat that was not in the pen.  There were legitimate connections formed to these shows.  I would not miss an episode. 

A bowl of cereal and a quiet house at six in the morning was the perfect backdrop for this early morning imaginative interaction.  It was my time to be a kid.  No restrictions and nothing to worry about I could enjoy these worlds of wonder.  Nowadays, it happens more along the mines of three or four in the morning and plopping down on the couch.  Drunk and recovering from a long night out and my savior is reminiscing on and watching these fantasical forms of childhood entertainment.   

The cartoons of today are nothing in comparison.  A bunch af guys singing and preaching to kids about who knows what.  Oh, how far we have fallen.  What happened to a qwerky wallaby struggling to be accepted in his toonish world?   I know I would not let my kids watch these overgrown teenie-boppers sing about sharing and cleaning up.     

Why I Stopped Caring

I stopped caring.  This has been in the works for some time now.  School is about as fun as dried Play-doh.    Works definitely has its drawbacks as well.  I work because I need money for school and necessities to get me through the days.  But I did not have school, I likely would not want to work very hard either.  So staying in school is the lesser of two evils.  I do not want to do either of these options full time; but it is as if, at twenty, I have no better option.  I can wiggle my way through my last two years and try to make some decent money, or I can jump directly into the work world with an unfinished degree.

Good luck finding a hottie when your making a couple bucks over minimum wage working your ass off.  So the stakes escalate.  One can go the route to success and obtain money and females or sweat with a bunch of dudes talking about vagina thats out of their monetary league.

I definitely love money and I love estrogen-filled beings, so I suppose the choice is made for me.  But this does not mean I truly care anymore.  I do not care about working my ass off to get dicked around by teachers on a general power trip or fight to impress a boss that I can really care less about.  What a life.  It sucks to be stuck between doing what one wants and doing what one has to do to be successful; or, dare I say, what society views as "success."  So it looks like school and part-time work for me.    

Can't We All Just Get Along?

Why is there so much hate?  I am positive that I naturally have no detesting hate for anything at all: food, people, bugs, etc.  And I dare say that this is likely true for, with some exceptions, everyone.  All the hate that flows through the air of today's society resembles a toxic time-bomb that must be learned before being released.

Yeah, this is not a plot to waste your time.  I am referring to possible one of the more vulnerable nights of my life.  I impulsively skipped school and drove to a Boosie concert in Monroe, Louisiana.  This was not one of my "brightest crayon in the box" moments, but it was an important night for me.  We climbed out of the back of a pickup truck like stray cats scattering in an alley.  I looked forward into the blinding stage lights to notice hundreds upon hundreds of people getting ready to "do the ratchet."  Lacking a flat-bill hat and a whole bunch of swagger, I strayed ahead and was enveloped by the crowd only to realize that I was one of the few melanin challenged individuals in the crowd.  I am not going to lie, I was partially intimidated.

Just as I figured it was about time to suave my way to the back of the "hyphy" crowd, the enchanting tones of the one they call Boosie reeled me back.  Noticing that the music meant just as much to me as the crowd around me, the hostile environment become shockingly welcoming.  This may not have seemed like much to the untrained eye; but, at this moment, I realized that looks do not matter.  People respond more to how one handles his/herself.  To be sucked in and "jiggy" out in one piece kind of changed my general outlook on "fitting in."  If one acts like a boss; others will likely respond to that individual as a boss.
 

American Made Love Affair

Who doesn't love feeling like a boss? How can i feel like a boss? What do bosses feel like?   Yeah, these are common questions that we, as Americans, may commonly contemplate.  Well in my particular case, my 1969 Roadrunner is the answer to all these inquiries.  Twenty six foot of streamlined steel encase one of the most durable four inch reinforced frames ever manufactured.  This is my baby.  My pride and joy.  The key to the ignition sparks my imagination far before the belts turn and pistons forge back and forth in the stroked cylinders.
The Roadrunner is more than just a childish guilty pleasure.  Plymouth Roadrunners have been the objects of my affection for as long as I can remember.  The rumble of the three hundred and eighty three cubic inch engine made my mouth condensate like cold glass on a summer day.  The satellite lamp covers and phantom grill, both ahead of their time, transformed this humble machine into an angry beast.  The car is made to be the opposite of eco-friendly.  It was designed to burn fuel and rubber like no other all for that instant gratification of knowing, for one, that my car looks cooler than yours and, in sequence, that my car is point blank faster than yours.
For me, the opportunity to call one of these machines my own was the culmination of all those childhood dreams and hours spent drooling over my fantasy car.  This machine belongs in my driveway like a bum on a beach.
Every morning when I leave and afternoon when I return home, I strum my fingers over the unrefined body from trunk to front fender.  This car makes me feel like I was always meant to have it.  It is more than just a car to me; my Roadrunner proves that I am a boss.  All those long wasted hours turned into me having the thing I had always dreamed of in my grasp.    

Am I Really Lovin' It?

Those inviting golden arches always catch my attention.  Even if I am not hungry, they are always there.  Every block or, at least, every other mile those golden arches gleam down at me.  I am in the safety of my truck; those golden arches will not get me this time (thoughts that cross my mind).  I am stronger than last time.  I saw that documentary and how unhealthy those golden arches can make one, but they are so damn tempting.  Those golden fries and nuggets and buns.  Sesame seeds or none; still delicious.  Those smiling faces; they look so happy; will tis food make me that happy? what about that creeper behind the fryer? He does not look happy (maybe I will just stray from the fried food).  Everything else must be the key to that immediate happiness and satisfaction.  I love those golden arches and despise them just as much.  It is impossible to be healthy when that shit is so good.  Those tasty treats, golden and delicious, are nearly priceless in my heart; however, that dollar menu makes sure that I will always have the funds to enjoy just that much more of this guilty pleasure.

However, it seems that as soon as I finish indulging in all that those golden arches have to offer, I next saunter across yet another symbol that sparks my tummy's interest.  That quaint little white and red structure where cows continually propaganda me to eat less bovine and more poultry is always an attention-getter.  Those golden-fried chicken patties are something to revel in (the fact that they are so affordable is simply the icing on the cake).

Maybe it is just me, but these same damn buildings keep me in check.  Constantly waiting and gasping at the next promotional item or potential deal or bargain.

Welcome to my life.

yeah...

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