Psycholgical Spanish

Tonight, a million things have entered, and exited, my mind. Some thoughts were, introspective, others used to realize just how good life can be, but for the most part they are incosequentially random. As you read on, I have to remember to drop off my absentee ballot before my trip. Thought number one million and one.

Hard to imagine it is now 2:18 in the morning, but it is. These thoughts, all of them, seem to share a common purpose, culminating in Darwinian, super nova, self-psychotherapy. They have evolved to understanding I don't spend enough time evaluating myself. Honestly.

Let's face it though, honesty is clad in bias, especially regarding oneself. Often times, to our own detriment we over analyze; leads me to believe the answer isn't near as important as the question.

Prevailing answers merely but a product of the process, I ponder love, and parenting; wonder if any of the stewardesses will be hot, but fear they won't. In my experience, two dollar Dr. Pepper mixed with $6 dollar whiskey always seems to taste better served by one fairly easy on the eyes. That same knowledge leads me to believe that Mile High Club fantasies, will surrender to You Would Have To Be High Club reality. Odds are, Barfbag Betty might reciprocate that same thought. One million two.

Crap, now I'm thinking of other people thinking. A million three.

I think of school, my place in the world, friends-new, old, and in some cases both. Reminds me, I need to send an email. One million and 4.

My guess is I will never truly know the answers, even understand them fully. What I have managed to draw from this Naches de No Sleepo, is that reality is but a figment of our imagination. Being ready, willing and able to submit myself to the normalcy of randomness affords me comfort. In the end, knowing that comfort makes me think (number one 1,000,005) that everything is bueno.

'Hallowmean' vs Stephen King

The argument I have isn't with ghouls being replaced by ankle biters in Spongebob costumes. I get that. The gripe isn't even with trick or treaters flocking to the mall in droves, despite my assumption the candy bowl next to my front door will remain full Halloween night. Religion doesn't play a role; in fact Happy Samhain (New Years) to our Pagan friends. No, my beef is with Hollywood. More directly to the directors and producers churning out Halloween inspired “horror” movies.

Scary movies, once a staple of the season, have found themselves the real disappointment of Halloween. Every year what is dubbed as this years 'scariest movie' is nothing more than an over gratuitous blood festival with unrealistic violence. The art of direction, leading one to a suspenseful dramatic conclusion, is gone. No, horror movies aren't about scaring anymore; they are about grossing you out. Perhaps the narrative of arousing fear doesn't pay as well as producing a visual manual for future serial killers.

It's hard to believe the story tellers of Hollywood have gone missing in the foggy cemetery of corporate studios, but the plot of horror movies has. Movies such as the Saw franchise, while incredibly ingenious, do not scare you. Stephen King novels scare you. They raise your blood pressure, and leave an unnerving need to look over your shoulder. Even most of the movies inspired by King's prose have turned out lame, the Shining notwithstanding. Think if you will, a King novel, directed by Gus Van Sant, produced by Steven Spielberg; now that would scare you. Yet, we pay for substandard product, based on overly hyped marketing, directed towards a scare craved audience. Not this year though, not me.

Call it my Halloween stimulus package. When Hollywood decides to make Halloween movies again instead of Hollowmean shockers, then maybe I will return to the box office. Until then, my plan is to eat Spongebob's unclaimed candy, read a Stephen King book, and be far away from the mall.

Little girls, and pink ribbons

Breast cancer, the very term is numbing to most, horrific to those living it. While cardiac disease continues to be the number one killer of women, it is breast cancer that fears the heart. Every woman is at risk, without discrimination; every woman a daughter. I have a daughter myself, she's eleven, far too young to worry about mammograms and self examinations. The same ambivalence isn't true for her worrisome father. A worry perpetuated, rightfully so, by constant reminding. Perhaps more so than any other cause, the drive to cure breast cancer remains at the forefront of a nations conscience. Corporate sponsorships and philanthropic trusts shine light on what has become an American obsession. Even the temporarily pink-clad National Football League has joined the fight, and so to it seems has Tacoma Community College.

The home volleyball match on Monday, October 26th featuring the number one ranked TCC Titans and Pierce College is reason enough to show up. In reality though, it almost serves as a backdrop to the nights main event. To honor National Breast Cancer Awareness month, TCC Volleyball will be hosting a donation driven benefit supporting the Susan G. Komen Foundation for a Cure. Laura Reichert, Vice President of Legislation ASTCC, Jennifer Manley, Coordinator of Student Life, and Student Leadership members will set up shop in the gymnasium accepting donations, passing out candy, and distributing a breast self-awareness handout.

Expectations are high, despite normally low attendance at volleyball games. “We would like to make this an annual event. With the support of faculty and the students, we could make this a blowout event,” Reichert said. “We will be in pink. We want a pink out [referring to all in attendance wearing the color],” Reichert said, describing her end vision for the night, “We want it packed.” Game time is scheduled for 7:00pm in the TCC gymnasium. Students displaying TCC identification, as well as Faculty members will be admitted free. Donations are being accepted prior to game day as well, coordinated by Reichert, and Manley upstairs in building eleven.

Throughout the day, TCC's campus will be colored pink. A breast cancer awareness march, the Pink Parade, will emanate from the Child Care Center and weave its way around campus to the Student Center, where a fashion show will follow. Anyone wishing to join the walk, are asked to meet outside Early Learning, building 2, at noon. The most creative, pink adorned outfit will win a very special prize. While Reichert wouldn't elaborate as to what the prize was, she did say that by purchasing the prize from a breast cancer sponsor, it afforded the donation of one free mammogram. Imagine that; one purchase possibly saving a life.

The simple math of October 26th is this, if every student and faculty member donated one dollar, 75 women could get a mammogram. Seventy-five. One dollar. A life saved, for less than the price of a Coke. Some will donate more, some less, but every penny counts in the end. Think of it as a really important, one day piggy bank.

My daughter understands that the more money she puts in her piggy bank the more money she has: What my daughter doesn't know is that breast cancer runs in her family history, possibly even her DNA. She doesn't remember her Aunt in Texas who survived, or met the great-Grandmother who didn't; she was only six as she watched the ravishes of the disease work its horror on a step-Mother. All she knows is the innocence of immortality in the eyes of a middle school student. By the age of 12, she will find out yet another family member will undergo chemotherapy. I want her to understand, to be weary of the dangers, and foresee the implications of what may lie ahead. My hope is she will never have to know. Most of all, I don't want to see her strung up with tubes of radioactive life support probing her veins. For that reason, I will march at noon, and be there at 7:00 pm on Monday. I will be grateful for survivors, remember loved ones, feel anger, and seek hope, sitting with my daughter, explaining the unimaginable, while she watches a volleyball game.

Shit free, please!

To-do lists are a form of them; so are New Year resolutions. Infomercials depend on their very existence. Goals; having them, setting a path to accomplish a desired new outcome is part of what we do. Whether it is to lose a few pounds, save money, find love or simply to take action, having a goal shouldn't define who we are as a person. It should motivate us. The definition of insanity is repeating actions the same as before expecting a different outcome. Perhaps the adage If at first you don't succeed try, try again is as outdated as the AMC Hornet (I had one. Gold in color at that. Straight pimpin'). One step at a time, however, now that's a formula. One that works well with goal setting. Often times, we bite more than we can chew. I know I do. Taking control isn't about regaining it today, after all, it didn't get lost overnight. Smaller steps, ones in which we can identify, quantify, and feel good about for achieving lead to another, then another. Focus on the end outcome less, the immediate step more. You want to go back to school? Forget the 4 years ahead and take the first step to fill out the application. Follow that step, with enrolling, picking classes, and attending; each process a foot forward, a focused action in a broader vision. Defining the end before it begins doesn't allow for flexibility. The end goal is but a destination, the steps in which become the journey. Knowing that journey doesn't involve self doubt, or being shit on, it relies on the ability to believe in yourself. Believe that you are too valuable to endure the shitters in your life, whatever or whoever they are. Go ahead, pick your destination, travel the many roads which navigate the way. Just remember streets are not always paved in gold, but they should be shit free.

Women of the wooden table.

Outnumbered, vulnerable, and frightened I sat amongst the enemy. One of four, the only man in the group, I was an honorary chick this ladies night. Four bottles of wine, three women and too many laughs led me to finally understand the appeal I have always wondered about; although as men, generally, honestly, we selfishly love ladies night. Yes, nothing spells love like a Monday night football game left alone to watch, scratch our ass, drink beer, and eventually fart. The latter generally requires, by man law, to rate said gas based solely upon the unwritten law of stank. Unbelievably, the night Brett Favre torched the Green Bay Packers, a man of men night, I drank wine and had a wonderful evening. It was therapeutic, if not liberating. An evening, I heartily admit, far better than sharing the evening with an overworked counselor who would rather be any where but in her office listening to the same crap she heard last week- and the week before. It was liberating, but more importantly I was free; free of the unknown, free of stereotypes and denial. In one evening I was educated into the mind of a woman that I had never known before. I hope, with any luck, they left thinking the same as I. Turnabout is fair play after all. On second thought, I don’t care.

In the journey of life we find ourselves in situations we will never forget. This night was indeed was one of these nights. I thank the woman of the rounded table for enlightenment for sharing in ways of honesty I could have not imagined. It isn’t manly, I am not even sure it is legal under man law, but the simple truth is I am a better MAN for being there.

Hope

There is a ritual I endure from time to time. In moments of perfect clarity I say something that resonates on a deeper level. These moments have been affectionately coined as Jeffisms, later renamed Shamrockisms. A majority of these can be classified as lewd and vulgar for which you will find no apologies. As they say, you can take the boy out of Auburn, but you can never take Auburn out of the boy. A legacy, I’m sure, that I share with many from the hamlet of mullets, ’84 Camaros, and the last standing Drive-In movie theater for counties.

In rare cases, however, a lucid concept comes to pass which involve little of the lewd, but more of what it is that we call reality. Something simple. One of those happened last night. The details, which led to this discovery, shall remain dressed in the cloaks of secrecy; in part because they are of little relevance, the other can be defined along the lines of homey don’t kiss and tell.

Hope is something of a fragile nature. We have elected our President predicated on the very promise of it. Hope endures. Or does it? Does hope in fact ambush us allowing us to believe in the unbelievable, worse the unattainable. Webster’s definition can be summated- to wish for something with the expectation of its’ fulfillment. Shamrockismictionary (Yes, that is a real word) defines hope as the dismantler of admiration. I spoke those words last night. Hope is the dismantler of admiration. That moment of clarity allowed myself to let go. I was speaking to someone else, but in fact was convincing myself. It’s funny how life works.

We all hope for this, and wish that. Some of us, myself included, have hoped and been hoped for. Hope will never, nor should it, exit our vocabulary, certainly not our conscience. Human nature and specifically the romantic relationship breed this way of thinking. A majority, if not all of us have been trapped in a relationship full of this hope to the demise of our self-esteem and core belief system. The scientist in me believes that with all outcomes there is an eventual opportunity based on those findings. Where one failure ends, an eventual success breathes life. The realization born from last nights Shamrockism is that hope is not faith; faith in oneself, faith in others.

I will love again, and so will you. When admiration, and faith outweighs hope- you have a winner. At least, that’s what I am hoping for. :)