Chad Comello

Tag: life

  • The Warmth Of The Snow

    Living in a warm climate during the Christmas season is good and bad. On one hand, you can walk around in shorts and a t-shirt while your northern friends brave harsh winds and icy roads just to get to their mailbox. But on the other hand, it’s just not Christmas without the cold.

    As a lifelong Midwesterner, I love the traditions of Christmas. My family has many of the well-known Hallmark moments of the holidays. My house and halls were always decked with green and ruby red Christmas lights and decorations. I always cut down the balsam fir evergreen with my family at a local tree farm and dragged it through the snow to the car, strapping it to the hood and bringing it home to bedazzle with ornaments new and old. We always – always – watch It’s a Wonderful Life on Christmas Eve with the fireplace roaring and the popcorn popping. And, yes, I even love the Midwestern cold that suffuses all of these things.

    But like the winter cold, these things happen every year, no matter what. When we vacationed in Florida over Christmas one year, we knew we wouldn’t have the cold or the tree, but we still brought our copy of It’s a Wonderful Life to keep tradition alive. And that’s what Christmas is often about: keeping tradition alive in spite of the circumstances.

    In The Pursuit of God, A.W. Tozer uses the Exodus story to illustrate the idea of holiness and tradition, which are two concepts at the very center of Christmas. Tozer explains how the Israelites, having lived for four hundred years in Egypt surrounded by all kinds of idolatry, had forgotten the very idea of God’s holiness. To correct this, Tozer writes, “God began at the bottom. He localized Himself in the cloud and fire and later when the tabernacle had been built He dwelt between holy and unholy. There were holy days, holy vessels, holy garments. By these means Israel learned that God is holy.”

    ‘God is holy.’ That is the simple thought that permeates the Advent season. And so when I decorate my evergreen tree and listen to ancient hymns in church and watch a movie with my family and walk through the falling snow, I know that it is not these things in and of themselves that remind me of the reason for the season; it’s the warmth of God’s holiness.

    “Let us believe,” Tozer concludes, “that God is in all our simple deeds and learn to find Him there.” Our traditions, like the Israelites’ cloud and fire, are best when they reveal God at His simplest and at His holiest.

  • On The River

    The sky is clear and the air is clear and the air smells clean. So clean. The wilderness of northern Wisconsin is still very wild. Evergreens clog the air. It’s perfect, this time of summer. Glory defined, with a high of 75. And it’s a perfect time to ride the Brule River, which snakes through the thick woods all the way to Lake Superior.

    I’m in a yellow kayak, the kayak eroded by age and water, sliding smoothly down the river. It was so clear I could see the bottom. If only there were mountains peeking over those tall evergreens. My paddle takes another dip, leaving a tiny tornado in its wake. I round another wide bend, avoiding a felled tree protruding from the shrub-choked shore. The steady current gently pushes me along, like a raindrop on a window. I lean back in my kayak and close my eyes and smell the air ambling by. Surely there is nothing better than this.

    I open my eyes and the treetops are looking back at me. A lone cloud follows me down the river. I sit up and paddle some more. Another bend approaches. On my right in an opening to the woods, a doe’s head shoots up. Her ears twitch. I pass slowly, admiring her grace, as two fawns emerge from the woods and flank their mom. The family’s out for a walk.

    The bend nears. I maneuver around a portly boulder. From farther away it seemed slight, but now I see how deep it extends. My very own summer iceberg. The rocks closer to the surface scrape the bottom of my kayak. Around the bend, a cliff of rocks and weeds looms over a sandy shore. Two ducks meander, nibbling just below the surface for snacks. Past the sand, the river straightened back out into a crystalline path.

    I think of Colorado. On vacation with my family two years before, we had rafted down the Colorado River, where the whitewaters made you work hard to stay afloat. We had drifted through a serene sandstone canyon and fought through feral rapids. We had driven ATVs deep into the Great Divide, a vast stretch of mountains and plains that unites a continent. And I had ridden bicycles with my dad down a mountain, zipping back and forth across its face, trying not to careen off the path. I saw the views at the end of each of those adventures. Views I told myself I would see again someday.

    A small rapid beckons me ahead. Only a few turns. I paddle hard. Approaching the brink, I start paddling one way but the rapid pulls me the other. My kayak slams one rock and bounces over another. I stab my paddle into the cold water between two rocks and pull myself past the boulders. My kayak continues on, steady and smooth. The battle over, I rest my paddle across my lap, smile and lay back.

    I think about life on the river. Taking one of those week-long canoe trips where survival means a good paddle and the need for adventure. I could do something like that. I need to do something like that. It’s a test, really. A test of the limits of your courage. A lot of people take it. Kayaking rivers, biking down mountains, hiking hidden paths—conquering the unconquerable. When you venture miles into untamed land you feel untamed yourself. When you risk death to take on a raging river you feel alive. When you finally flee civilization and safety and risk losing something, you return to the best of yourself. Nature is funny that way.

    I round another bend and see the rest of my group gathering at the load-in dock. Some are wading in the shallows, waiting for the stragglers. A girl jumps off a wood ledge and floats downstream for a few seconds before pulling herself back up. For those few seconds she had floated on her back and saw the same treetops I had seen. She was a dreamer.

  • Why I Love The Midwest

    Originally printed in the North Central Chronicle on April 3, 2009.

    A friend of mine grew up with the California itch. Her family was from San Francisco but she was stuck in Wisconsin for most of her life. She always complained about it and talk about wanting to be an actress and live the life in Hollywood, get out of the Midwest and all that.

    She eventually went to college in Los Angeles. But after a few years there she became disillusioned with the West Coast life for some reason. I thought nothing but a family reunion every decade would bring her back to the Midwest, but now she says she is coming home after graduation.

    What brought her back? Maybe it was the bratwurst and quality beer. Midwesterners know how to eat and drink, that’s for sure. Maybe it was the sports teams. God knows the Packers are way cooler than the San Diego Chargers.

    I don’t know exactly, but my point is we have a great thing going here in the Midwest. It’s hard to appreciate this when, if you’re like me, you have lived here your whole life. But we have seasons. Actual seasons. Californians don’t know the meaning of the word. All they get are sun and 70s. Some of you think that’s the perfect kind of weather. But when you get that all day, every day, it gets boring. You start thinking you’re entitled to perfect weather. Maybe that’s why West Coasters get that stereotype of entitlement.

    Right now we are starting to enjoy the fruits of spring. There will be green grass and flowers and rebirth and sun. We get thunderstorms, baby rabbits, and puddles in which we can gleefully splash. Then summer will come with its freedom and fun and humidity and even more sun. Summer is a great season, sure, but our version doesn’t distinguish us from the rest of the world. Summer then leads us to autumn, the season that makes you think philosophically about life and death and bobbing for apples while you watch the colors fall from decaying trees.

    And then, winter, the most polarizing season. The lovers love the snow, the sledding, the snowballs, and Christmas, while the haters hate the cold, the cold, and the cold. I am a self-proclaimed winter-lover. Yes, even the cold. It toughens us. It doesn’t allow us to take for granted the warmth of the summer. It makes the spring all the more beautiful after months of cold and dreariness.

    You can’t go 10 minutes without hearing someone complain about the weather here. Like the weather is the only thing stopping them from enjoying their life. When did that become the case? June and July don’t have a monopoly joy. January has a share of it too. We are just exiting winter, so I suspect the complaints will subside-for now. Another year and the yelping will come back again, just as annoying as ever.

    That’s why, amongst those who bemoan the trappings of winter, I exalt its virtues. I say I love it for all the reasons they hate it. It’s too cold, they say. All the better the warmth will feel. It’s too dreary, they say. All the brighter the sun will shine. In spite of all the bad things that are happening around us, I’m just trying to look for the good. We’re supposed to be living in the age of hope, after all.

    So come November, as the temperatures drop and your nose hairs begin to freeze, turn that frown upside down and remember that Californians will never know how it feels to walk on ice. Or how it feels to get a snowball in the face. That, my Midwest friends, is something that is reserved for us.

  • The President Of My Youth

    I remember just a few things from the Clinton ’90s: Kosovo, Elian Gonzalez, and impeachment mostly. But most of the decade flew by under my radar as I concerned myself with more important things like the world champion Green Bay Packers and what colors I wanted for my braces. It was seventh grade when I finally paid attention to something that adults cared about: the 2000 election.

    My social studies teacher, like every other at the time, had us involved with the election. We learned who the candidates were, what the Electoral College was, and how many votes you needed to win. My friend Ryan and I made up nicknames for the candidates: “Gush” and “Bore” were the favorites. We even got to “vote” on Election Day in our very own school-wide election. As my classmates voted I acted like a TV journalist gathering exit polls which I reported to my teacher. Then, I went into the booth and voted for George W. Bush.

    It has been a little over eight years since that day. Times have changed and so has my vote; it went for Obama this year. Yet as I watch our 43rd president fade away into the background, I have mixed emotions. Sure, the country has gone to a tame version of hell, but my last eight years of life (my entire adolescence) were never without Bush in the White House. And in that time, I’ve gone through a plethora of feelings about the man.

    First was apathy. I remember the 2000 election debacle vividly because my name was in the news every night thanks to those old voters in Dade County who couldn’t manage to push a paper dot hard enough. But once it was decided, I didn’t really care. Even after the terrorist attacks and Bush’s subsequent popularity surge, I was too young for him to make an impact on me.

    In the meantime, everything bad happened: Katrina, the Iraq debacle, Guantanamo Bay, the Abu Ghraib scandal, Alberto Gonzales. Then the 2006 midterm elections went for the Democrats and I started to pay attention. I began to lean left. (Living in the ultraliberal Madison, Wis., certainly helped.) I read the Huffington Post and watched Keith Olbermann a lot, relying too heavily on their liberal outrage to dictate my political beliefs.

    Their opinion of Bush was becoming mine too: I became increasingly convinced he was a scheming far right hawk hell-bent on jailing all dissenters and propagating through Fox News, all the while fleecing Middle America and laughing while major cities flooded and foreign countries burned. Arianna Huffington and Keith Olbermann continue to think this and said so throughout the 2008 election. It helped get Obama elected and Bush became a lamer duck in the process.

    But ever since the election, my righteous anger has settled. I now think Bush is not evil but flawed, a tad misunderstood and, dare I say it, underappreciated. Sure, his “Bring it on” braggadocio and “Mission Accomplished” banner were mistakes. He dropped the ball post-Katrina and did not speak candidly about Iraq and WMD. His No Child Left Behind Act was misguided and his economic policies exacerbated an already growing problem.

    Yet, despite all that, I don’t hate him. There was a time when I would have refused to shake his hand if I met him simply because of our differing political views, but I’ve moved on from that. Perhaps it’s pity, seeing him roundly crucified by the left for his mistakes large and small. Perhaps it’s because of our common Christian faith. Perhaps it’s because I’m beginning to get annoyed with liberals.

    If I were to meet not George Bush the president but George Bush the father and family man, I think I would really like him. He’s a laid-back straight shooter who probably holds a conversation at a barbeque much better than he does at a press conference. He obviously doesn’t take himself too seriously and can withstand a brutal bombardment of criticism much better than most.

    “George Walker Bush is not a stupid or a bad man,” writes Ron Suskind in Esquire. “But in his conduct as president, he behaved stupidly and badly.”

    Because he behaved stupidly and badly, Bush will leave with comically low approval ratings. He has said repeatedly that history will hold his unpopular acts in higher regard than they are today. He’s right, to an extent. Presidents Lincoln and Truman made grave and consequential decisions that ended the Civil War and World War II, respectively. Bush is no Lincoln (far from him) but both men stuck to their guns. Bush has always stuck to his guns, no matter what. Even when things got bad, he “stayed the course.” It was simultaneously honorable and maddening.

    History in fact will reveal if he was right to do so, but judgments of Bush cannot be written today with a clear head. The old wounds are still fresh and the animosity still potent.

    Now we’ve got a new president to love or loathe. Let us learn from the last eight years to separate the man from the mission. Obama, like Bush, is a good man who will have to make tough decisions and live with the consequences forever. If we can discern the policy from the personal, I think we will all have fairer views of the people who take on the toughest job in the world.

    George W. Bush may be crossing the finish line with a limp, but at least he finished the race. You’ve got to give him props for that.

  • Carpe 2009: My Resolutions For The New Year

    Published in the North Central Chronicle on January 9, 2009.

    New Year’s Resolutions are like Airborne pills: they don’t really work, but we use them anyway because they make us feel better about the bumpy ride ahead. I’ve never taken Airborne pills, but every January I still resolve to do something different in the New Year-exercise more, eat less fast food, be more loving towards the unlovables like Paris Hilton fans and people who wear Crocs. (I’ve gotten better at the first two, but the last one…ain’t gonna happen.)

    This year, for the sake of accountability, I’m making public each resolution I have for 2009, because you can tell your diary everything you plan on doing, but your diary won’t tell you all those Krispy Kremes have made you fall off the fat wagon again. That’s what friends and casual acquaintances are for.

    Resolution #1: Stop complaining about Kaufman.

    I know, I know. Kaufman’s food tends to…well, underperform. I’d love for the marinara sauce to not taste like lemon juice, or for the eggs to be in solid form, but it does, and they aren’t. Big deal. I don’t want to drop the whole “There are starving children in Africa” argument, but there are starving children in Africa.We all know exactly how good or how bad the food in Kaufman is, so we don’t need to keep telling each other. It’s like inmates telling each other they’re in prison. What’s the point?

    Resolution #2: Stop complaining about the campus bikes.

    While there is never a %$^&!@& campus bike when it’s $@^#$!& needed, there is no use in complaining incessantly about something I have no control over. I’ll just have to make do walking the three blocks to class. I’m sure it will be fine.

    Resolution #3: Listen to Will Smith more.

    While on the promotional tour for his film “Seven Pounds,” Will Smith doled out some really good life advice: read and run every day. Doing so will stimulate the mind and the body and make you feel like you’ve accomplished something, even on a cruel, dreary, why-do-I-live-in-the-Midwest January day. It’s easy to get the reading part out of the way when classes are in session, but the running part will take some motivation. Check out the treadmills in the Merner workout room or join a pack of cross country runners on a winding trek through the neighborhood. I’m sure they won’t mind.

    Resolution #4: Criticize the new president.

    Now that he’s elected, it’s okay to admit: Obama got a pass from the media. It helped that he was telegenic and not a Republican, but he snuck in without being bullied as much as Clinton or Palin were. But now that he’s going to be the guy in charge, we can’t let up on him just because he’s inexperienced or because of his skin color. There will be scandals and missteps and flat-out lies, so don’t be surprised if Mr. Cool is not the savior of the world as your Obamanic friends would have you believe. He is officially The Man now, and we ought to stick it to him as we have faithfully to Bush over the last eight years.

    Resolution #5: Never trust the economy.

    Sure, it will bounce back eventually, but this Armageddon of ’08 has shown me that my mattress is just about the safest place I can put money these days. My brain has about a 10-second threshold for economic matters, so when people say that the sub-prime mortgage whosey-whatsey and the dividends on the market investments yadda yadda yadda will recover, I could care less. From now on, my money will be in two places: my checking account and Noodles & Co. That’s an investment I can rely upon.

    Resolution #6: Never trust governors.

    2008 gave us the double whammy of Eliot “Emperors Club VIP” Spitzer and Rod “I Don’t Understand What A Wiretap Is” Blagojevich. Both men have sexual pun-worthy last names, they both have hair issues, and they both are really, really stupid. I mean really stupid. But while Blagojevich’s dealings were dirty, at least he didn’t drag his wife to the press conference like Spitzer did. So far, Jim Doyle, the governor of my home state of Wisconsin, has been in the clear, but I’m just waiting for the day when we learn he’s one-upped both Spitzer and Blagojevich by giving an open Senate seat to a prostitute named Cherry he slept with in the capitol building. That, my friends, would make my year.

    Resolution #7: Stop saying “awesome.”

    I don’t know who started this, but it needs to stop. “Awesome” has become the word people will associate with this decade, like “rad” of the ’90s, “groovy” of the ’70s, and “flapper” of the ’20s. I’m not saying this decade was awesome-after all, the ’90s were anything but radical-I’m just saying the word needs to stay in this decade. There are plenty of great synonyms, like “stupendous” and “fantabulous.” That last one isn’t really a word, but it’s better than awesome.

  • Here’s Looking At You…

    On WordPress, the moderator has a “dashboard” that keeps track of comments, number of hits on blog posts, etc. It also has a cool feature that shows Internet searches that eventually brought people to my blog.

    So if I write a post saying, for instance, “The Dark Knight explores complex moral issues by focusing on amorality,” then my post might be one of the first links on Google if someone searches for “dark knight amorality.”

    The reason I’m telling you this is because more than any other keyword, the top searches that lead to my blog have something to do with introverts being misunderstood, being tired of socializing, or just characteristics of introverts. It’s this post I wrote at the beginning of the year that they read.

    I just find it interesting how introverts are supposed to be the silent minority in our society, yet every day lots of people search the Internet for some relief from the extroverted world around them. Well, I’m with you, introvert. Hang in there.

  • Forty-One

    I’m watching the video tribute to George H. W. Bush at the Republican National Convention. It reminded me how great a person and American he is. World War II fighter pilot, Congressman, Ambassador to the U.N., envoy to China, Director of the CIA, Vice-President, and finally, President — there are few public servants with such a record.

    Seeing him at the ripe age of 84, he reminded me of my grandpa Cliff, both by his appearance and by his resume. Grandpa Cliff served as a lieutenant in Patton’s Third Army, trudging through the Battle of the Bulge, then through decades of service in the FBI. Both men are decorated members of the Greatest Generation.

    I watched the Bush Sr. episode of American Experience a while back and it explained that regardless of some of Bush Sr.’s decisions in office, he held true to his own code of honor and dignity. That code guided him through some tough times and hard decisions. Even when the decisions were unpopular. Perhaps we’ll be thinking the same things about 41’s son Dubya one day. Or not.

  • Me, Myself, And An Ugly Sweater

    I’m done with summer camp. It was my third summer at Lake Waubesa Bible Camp and definitely the most fun. Everyone on staff got along great. It was easy to have fun and joke around (a lot) but still be able to share the serious moments and enjoy God’s creation and his work all summer.

    This summer I was the worship leader but I also counseled a few weeks of middle school and Day Camp. In the last three years of camp life, I’ve developed a deeper understanding of what servant leadership requires and how important humility and patience really are. Rolling around in old food and dirt and sweating constantly taught me to enjoy every second of what was given to me. Even when campers got so unbelieveably annoying sometimes, I could still find joy in them and in what they got out of camp.

    We talked about character this summer and all the Godly characteristics it requires: humility, patience, loving-actions, unselfishness, a tamed tongue. The Book of James talks about all of these things quite concisely. My favorite one, again, is humility because if you really have it you’re being Christ-like. It’s as simple as that.

    I also came to a place of brokenness literally and figuratively. I developed an inner and outer ear infection and, somehow, a ruptured ear drum back in June. The pain lasted about two weeks. In that time, aided by the constant rigors of summer camp life, I became completely broken and humbled. One day I was practicing “Blessed Be Your Name” for the evening meeting. As I sang through it casually, the lyrics hit me where I was:

    Every blessing You pour out
    I’ll turn back to praise
    When the darkness closes in, Lord
    Still I will say
    Blessed be the name of the Lord

    Then there’s this verse:

    Blessed be Your name
    On the road marked with suffering
    Though there’s pain in the offering
    Blessed be Your name

    Right there I just broke down crying. The full-time staff guy was there and we talked for a while. I had been going through a period of drought and doubt and my ear problems became my rock-bottom, my total brokenness.

    Looking back, and even at the time, I absolutely loved being broken down like that. To be nowhere but down and needing nothing but Jesus. I recommend it.

    It was a great summer. To be able to be silly with kids and learn about Jesus and be outside all day every day and not in the stifling air-conditioned hell of Copps was a blessing. As far as next summer goes: who knows. I know I can go back there and have more fun and learn more about God, but I don’t know what he wants me to do. I need to be ready to hear that.

    (P.S. If you have considered being a counselor but haven’t done it, DO IT. It’s the most rewarding, demanding, ridiculous, tiring, joyful, and painful thing you can do. You’ll learn a lot and you’ll have ridiculous stories to tell afterward.)

  • Doing Unspeakable Acts To E.T.

    I stopped by Half-Price Books the other day hoping to get lucky. After perusing the record collection as usual, I ventured into the clearance section. I’m a bad book buyer because I’m so indecisive and there are so many classics I have yet to read that I eventually get overwhelmed and end up not buying anything. But this time I managed to cross the bridge and buy some books.

    I picked up Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies and a collection of Langston Hughes poetry. I’ve been on the lookout for a cheap Hughes collection ever since I read him in an American Literature class and fell in love with him. But Lamott’s book was a surprise and a bit of an impulse buy for me because I rarely buy anything without researching it before hand to avoid being disappointed and regretting departing with my cash.

    I’d heard of Anne Lamott before. I think she visited my school to speak but I couldn’t go. But I decided to take a chance on her 1999 memoir because I heard that she was a liberal Christian. You don’t hear from them often.

    I loved Traveling Mercies. I cruised through it, and I don’t do that often. Even though I’m an English major I have to really try to finish books. Most of the time I don’t even finish the assigned readings for my lit classes unless they catch me. But I clung to Lamott’s humor and sincerity and no-bullshit view on life. I can only hope to see the good in every part of life she does in spite of (and because of) the suffering she’s endured.

    I loved how she can be so freaking funny in moments of complete confusion or distress. She describes the feeling of hitting your child: “It’s so awful, attacking your child. It is the worst thing I know, to shout loudly at this fifty-pound being with his huge trusting brown eyes. It;s like bitch-slapping E.T.”

    Anyway, that’s what I’ve been reading at camp, which is over this week. To make a big life lesson so very concise: I’ve learned a lot about humility and patience.

    I’ve got the new Coldplay album on steady rotation. Check it out. Also the song “You’ll Always Be My Best Friend” by Relient K off their new EP/B-sides record The Bird and the Bee Sides.

    On a less happy note, what’s the deal with Favre? Notice I blame him and not the Packers for this soap opera. I’m starting to wish he never retired, despite what I wrote shortly after he did so. Oh, well. Rodgers is our man. Get used to it Cheeseheads.

  • What’s Going On?

    Haven’t been on much—camp is keeping me busy. It is nice, though, to be able to unplug from the world for a while and not be able to check your email and keep up on the news even if you want to. Here’s a few thoughts on random stuff:

    —The Dark Knight was just amazing. I’m looking forward to seeing it again.

    —In regards to the Favre-Packers debacle, the Packers organization I think has done right. Favre has lost all of the goodwill he earned throughout his career by continuing to flip-flop and run his mouth. I’ll always be a Favre fan, but I’m a Packers fan above all. He retired quite tearfully and emphatically. If he wants to come back he has to do it on the team’s terms.

    —Ebert & Roeper at the Movies, Roger Ebert and Richard Roeper’s weekly movie review show will no longer be. Ebert and Disney could not come to an agreement about the show’s direction after Ebert’s departure and so both Ebert and Roeper will be leaving the show. I really, really hope they find a way to get back on the air on their own terms because the intelligent and entertaining film criticism it provides week to week is one of a kind.

    —The two movies I was most looking forward to this summer—The Dark Knight and Wall-E—did not let me down. I’m not sure what else is coming out this summer that will be worth watching, but I’ll have lots of time after camp to check them out.

  • Knife To Meet You

    True story from NPR:

    Julio Diaz has a daily routine. Every night, the 31-year-old social worker ends his hour-long subway commute to the Bronx one stop early, just so he can eat at his favorite diner.

    But one night last month, as Diaz stepped off the No. 6 train and onto a nearly empty platform, his evening took an unexpected turn.

    He was walking toward the stairs when a teenage boy approached and pulled out a knife.

    “He wants my money, so I just gave him my wallet and told him, ‘Here you go,’” Diaz says.

    As the teen began to walk away, Diaz told him, “Hey, wait a minute. You forgot something. If you’re going to be robbing people for the rest of the night, you might as well take my coat to keep you warm.”

    The would-be robber looked at his would-be victim, “like what’s going on here?” Diaz says. “He asked me, ‘Why are you doing this?’”

    Diaz replied: “If you’re willing to risk your freedom for a few dollars, then I guess you must really need the money. I mean, all I wanted to do was get dinner and if you really want to join me … hey, you’re more than welcome.

    “You know, I just felt maybe he really needs help,” Diaz says.

    Diaz says he and the teen went into the diner and sat in a booth.

    “The manager comes by, the dishwashers come by, the waiters come by to say hi,” Diaz says. “The kid was like, ‘You know everybody here. Do you own this place?’”

    “No, I just eat here a lot,” Diaz says he told the teen. “He says, ‘But you’re even nice to the dishwasher.’”

    Diaz replied, “Well, haven’t you been taught you should be nice to everybody?”

    “Yea, but I didn’t think people actually behaved that way,” the teen said.

    Diaz asked him what he wanted out of life. “He just had almost a sad face,” Diaz says.

    The teen couldn’t answer Diaz — or he didn’t want to.

    When the bill arrived, Diaz told the teen, “Look, I guess you’re going to have to pay for this bill ’cause you have my money and I can’t pay for this. So if you give me my wallet back, I’ll gladly treat you.”

    The teen “didn’t even think about it” and returned the wallet, Diaz says. “I gave him $20 … I figure maybe it’ll help him. I don’t know.”

    Diaz says he asked for something in return — the teen’s knife — “and he gave it to me.”

    Afterward, when Diaz told his mother what happened, she said, “You’re the type of kid that if someone asked you for the time, you gave them your watch.”

    “I figure, you know, if you treat people right, you can only hope that they treat you right. It’s as simple as it gets in this complicated world.”

  • Favre’s Retirement Ends Golden Age Of Quarterbacks

    Published in the North Central Chronicle on March 28, 2008.

    February 3, 1997. My first Super Bowl. It was so exciting; the first game I remember seeing on television and my team was playing. It was my Green Bay Packers. And it was my Brett Favre.

    My family hosted the party. I was decked out in my No. 4 jersey and brand new Cheesehead as I watched Favre throw touchdown after touchdown against the Patriots in Super Bowl XXXI. He even managed a rare quarterback sneak for a score. He helped bring the Lombardi Trophy back where it belongs to Lombardi’s home sweet home; the legendary Lambeau Field. I felt so proud that the Packers were my team and that Brett Favre was my quarterback.

    Unfortunately, as every football fan knows, good times like these never last long. Injury, free agency, or retirement always snatches our heroes away from us. Sometimes they make their exit after a tragic injury in the twilight of their career or after a triumphant Super Bowl victory. Brett Favre did neither; he left on his own terms.

    My dad called me to tell me the news. “Favre retired.” I should have been somewhat prepared for this; sports writers and non-Packer fans have been calling for his retirement for years, but I was shocked. I felt empty. I have not known life without Brett Favre as the quarterback of the Green Bay Packers.

    I spent the next couple of days disheartened. I watched every highlight reel I could find of his top plays and memorable moments. I even got teary with him as he formally announced his retirement (not kidding). I pushed through all of the stages of grief, albeit superficially. I probably won’t reach full acceptance until the season opener when, for the first time in my memory, Brett Favre will not be there to take the snap.

    I know this all seems melodramatic. After all, football is just a game and Favre is just a man. But I grew up with a legendary quarterback who started every game and made big plays when they mattered. I realize now how special and rare it is to have such a gift. I’ve never had to constantly shift my trust to the next fifth-round draft pick who would just let me down again. I’ve been able to turn on the television on Sundays during football season and know that, win or lose, the Packers would be okay.

    I felt that way because Favre was more than a quarterback. He was the anchor and the image of the Packers organization and of the entire state of Wisconsin. Politicians cycled in and out while Favre kept driving down the Frozen Tundra looking for a score. But even more than that; he was a constant in my life in which I could find solace and inspiration as I trekked through the rockiness of childhood and adolescence. I felt safe knowing that Favre would remain, no matter how good or bad the Packers performed.

    What Favre brought to the game was his playground antics, his improvisational skills, his grit, and his pure joy for the game. He was no cookie cutter quarterback. Even Vikings and Bears fans, the Packers’ true nemeses, fell victim of his charm every time he flashed that toothy grin after making a ridiculous play. He threw off of his heels constantly and scrambled in the pocket like a decapitated chicken. He threw the most touchdowns as well as the most interceptions. He was a true gunslinger, a rugged man’s man; the John Wayne of the gridiron.

    Still, as hard as it is for me to say, it was a good time for him to go. He broke nearly every major NFL record a quarterback can break and had fun doing it. Even though he didn’t get the second Super Bowl win he wanted, he is leaving on top after arguably the best year of his career, Super Bowl ring or not. (I’m planning on repressing the memory of his last pass; an interception that cost a Super Bowl bid.)

    With Favre hanging up his cleats, a golden age of quarterbacks has ended. Steve Young, Dan Marino, John Elway, Troy Aikman, and Brett Favre all epitomized what was great about football and the everyday heroes it can give us. The Tom Bradys and Peyton Mannings are talented of course, but they don’t have the spark that made Favre football fun to watch.

    Outside of the realm of football, Favre is leaving behind a legacy decorated with not just wins and losses, but also the fond memories of a scrawny redhead who loved to run routes with his dad and imagine he was catching the winning pass in Lambeau Field from one of the game’s greats. That is a bond that time cannot erode.

    The march to football season is going to be strange for me and my fellow Packers fans. We will be out of step for the first time in a long time. The sparkle we’ve grown to know and love has faded from the Packers franchise and from the NFL. But once we move on, we’ll be able to get back to beating the Bears and winning the Super Bowl. It is what Favre would have wanted.

  • Lord of the Rings

    The Turner Classic Movies channel is showing Academy Award winning films all day every day this month in a series called “31 Days of Oscar.” I watched Lord of the Rings: Return of the King last night and realized something.

    I would remember that trilogy for the rest of my life.

    I hadn’t read the books before I saw the first movie. I remember seeing the trailer and being very intrigued. Then I saw the movie and knew I had seen something incredible. I was in 8th grade when Fellowship came out. After that, my friend Tim and I became obsessive teen fanboys. He had read the trilogy plus the supplemental materials before, but we enjoyed the movies together.

    I kept a daily countdown until the release of The Two Towers. Every day in chemistry class I would tell my friend Chris how many days were left; he wouldn’t care, but I couldn’t care enough. We bought our tickets in advance and went opening weekend I believe.

    We repeated the same process for Return of the King, except I read all of the books before I saw it. I simply could not wait until December to find out what happened. (I’ve read the trilogy twice through since then.) So seeing Return, I had a different perspective, yet I enjoyed it as much as I did the others.

    I remember being picked up from school with Tim by my sister Elise. Tim was just crawling into the back seat when Elise began to accelerate. Tim’s foot was not yet in the door, so it got caught beneath the moving tires for a moment. He was pretty jarred, but he made it, and we made to the theater to enjoy what we knew would be the final run-through of our annual ritual. Though we could extend our ritual further with the release of the extended DVDs. I’ve since watched the entire trilogy straight through with Tim—good times.

    Lord of the Rings went on to box office and Oscar glory, but it also won the hearts of many youth. My dad never caught on to it; the weird names and twisting plot makes it hard for the Boomers to latch onto it. But it is essentially the Star Wars of my generation. Filmmakers will try for its revolutionary special effects and cultural impact for years. But above all, I will always associate LOTR with the fondness of my youth.

    I will think of the great epic story, the lovable heroes, and the grand magic of cinema that creates a world out of nothing to entertain and enlighten the child in everyone.

    Here’s lookin’ at you, Frodo.

  • The Gaze, Ctd.

    I was at the Union again last night, working the concession stand. The first band played, then they were hanging out by their merch table. A trio of girls, probably my age, sauntered in and started to flirt with the drummer of the first band.

    I’ve seen this before. It has happened to me at shows. Generally, I feel awkward in those situations but I can still find a way to survive. But these girls, and this guy with his pants hanging down (what is this, middle school?), tattoos on display, and drumsticks in his hands, put on a show of their own.

    One girl had the dark look; slick black hair, black Uggs, tanned face, eyeliner, and fairly prominent cleavage. The second girl I don’t remember. But the third one, the ring leader, is unforgettable. She had brown Uggs, tight jeans and shirts, and effortless blond brown curls (read: hours in front of the mirror). But all of these features were meant to complement her cleavage. Even more so than the first girl.

    (Side note: I was not purposely seeking out cleavage; it sort of found me. But there is a point to all of this…)

    My friend at the concession stand had seen them as well and was struggling to contain her contempt, especially with the third girl. She looked flustered, then said, “Sorry, I was just having a problem with women for a second.”

    I understood what she meant. She resented this girl’s objectification of her own body for means of gaining fleeting attention from a guy who probably didn’t even know her name. So beyond that reason, and this is my question; why do women do that? I suppose I could answer it myself, but I’d rather hear it from them.

    Is it about self-esteem? Attention? Or do girls just do it for fun? Maybe it’s all of those.

  • Introverts: A Misunderstood Bunch

    Published in North Central Chronicle on January 18, 2008.

    In a world where talk is cheap and time is money, life for an introvert can often become disorienting and exhausting.

    In a society dominated by extroverts, who gear more towards conversation and activity, introverts become marginalized for our perceived lack of social skills. The truth is that introverts hardly lack social skills. We simply get our energy from being alone rather than from being with other people. That trait is too often confused with shyness, but in fact we may just want to be left alone.

    Extroverts have a difficult time discovering this distinction. Because of their shorter conversational attention spans and inability to be alone for extended periods of time, they do not, or simply cannot, understand their introverted friends. They ask an introvert to dinner and do not understand why they would rather stay home alone and read than socialize. Or perhaps they balk at an introvert’s request to leave a party after only a short time, not knowing that the introvert cannot take much more mindless chatter.

    We introverts fight battles constantly. We fight with leagues of extroverts for airtime to voice our carefully-crafted thoughts. We fight for time alone everyday to recharge and recollect. We fight the stereotypes branded on us, wishing for nothing more than understanding. We also feel like picking a fight when we’re asked, “Are you all right?” for the hundredth time, when all we want to do is remain deep in thought.

    Often our reluctance to socialize leads extroverts to believe that we introverts are arrogant, detached, or self-absorbed. This misconception is probably due to an introvert’s disdain for small talk. Our days are filled with thinking—we like to figure out exactly what we’ll say before saying it—so the concept of small talk seems obligatory and a waste of time. But even more than small talk, introverts hate repeating themselves. Calvin Coolidge once said, “If you don’t say anything, you won’t be called on to repeat it.” I wonder if Coolidge would have even survived in today’s political atmosphere.

    But we introverts must trudge on. In the article “Caring for Your Introvert” by Jonathan Rauch, the author writes, “Many actors, I’ve read, are introverts, and many introverts, when socializing, feel like actors.” We learn to put on a happy, sociable face when it’s called for, if only to keep the inquisitive extroverts off our backs. Indeed, before I enter a social circus, I have to mentally ready myself for an unknown amount of hyper-interaction. I tell myself, “This is a party. You can have fun and talk with people.” I try not to be a recluse, but sometimes my social battery runs out and irritation quickly sets in.

    Perhaps one day, extroverts will understand the hell they put us introverts through. Perhaps one day, breaks in conversation will not seem awkward, and small talk will not be required to maintain proper etiquette. Perhaps one day, extroverts will discover the joy of seclusion, and the value of stillness. Perhaps. Until that day, you extroverts should be more mindful of your quieter, less convivial peers. Do not ask them why they’re so quiet, or why they want to be left alone, because the reason is probably you.

  • The ‘Rite’ Of The Male Gaze

    Published in the North Central Chronicle on September 28, 2007.

    Imagine: John Q. Student is sitting on a bench outside the Science Center with his friend Billy. John spots a voluptuous, scantily-clad young woman walking their way and takes a long look at her behind his sunglasses. He says to Billy: “Dude, check out that chick’s…personality.”

    You mean you’ve never heard that before? Well, replace “personality” with a part of the female anatomy and you’ve got what is commonly referred to as the “male gaze.”

    The male gaze, according to Dr. Jonathan Schroeder, “signifies a psychological relationship of power, in which the gazer is superior to the object of the gaze.”

    It’s about having “the power” to look a woman up and down, see what we want to see, and then move on. Century upon century of male superiority has made this act commonplace and even encouraged. It’s considered a badge of honor within the Brotherhood of Man. But that doesn’t make it right. In fact, it’s something that needs to be changed.

    Perpetual use of the male gaze degrades women to mere objects of a man’s desire – pieces of meat, essentially. When we as males check a girl out, be it mindfully or not, we’re saying to the woman: “You are only worth what I’m looking at right now.” That’s quite a message to be sending to a fellow human being.

    The male gaze has in a way become a rite of passage into modern manhood. In order to impress our buddies, we have to talk about how hot a girl is or how nice her breasts are. Ladies, odds are you’ve never heard this talk before, but it’s very real. It can happen as soon as you pass a group of rambunctious guys, or as soon as you leave the room at a party, or even right before your eyes. Think Glenn Gulia in The Wedding Singer: “that’s Grade-A top-choice meat.”

    The fact that the male gaze has been accepted as normal male behavior disturbs me greatly. Take a typical beer commercial for example: A man is caught checking out a good-looking woman by his girlfriend, but he just shrugs it off. His girlfriend is then forced to surrender to the notion that it’s “just a guy thing.” He will continue to size women up, and she will continue to feel powerless and undesirable. How painful.

    A big reason why men utilize the Gaze is because we know women like being desired. The depth of the desire isn’t important so long as it’s desire. That could be a gross generalization, but I know for a fact that many women eat up the attention. Trust me; that attention is fleeting. Your self-esteem cannot survive on lustful looks you absorb from the guy across the room. Do you really want all the good things about you ignored simply because they’re hidden from view?

    You are worth more than the looks you receive. Put your self-worth somewhere else, somewhere worthwhile. Guys are admittedly very easy to bait, but I’m challenging you to give us something more than a mini-skirt to value about you. There’s a part in every one of you that deserves to be shared with the world; I dare you to show us that part. Be a mystery that we men have to solve. Flaunt your gifts, not your G-string.

    I issued a challenge the women, so I will issue one to my fellow men as well: It’s time to clean up our act. No matter how we try to justify it, the male gaze is just not cool. Just imagine seeing another guy check out your sister, or your mom. That’s no different from what you just did with that girl sitting next to you in class. The women we’re ogling are sisters and mothers as well, so let’s treat them as such. They deserve nothing less.

  • the intersection

    “What direction now? Life begins at the intersection.”

    Switchfoot, “Faust, Midas, and Myself”

    This lyric smacked me right in the face. What direction now? What are you doing to do now? Which path are you going to choose?

    When you’re staring down your options, burning holes with your eyes, which way? What direction now? Are you going to stand up to the darkness, the unknown, the fear? Or are you going to embrace mediocrity, complacency, unproductivity?

    What direction now?

    It’s your decision, make it the best one. Stand up and decide. What direction now?

  • weddings and radiance

    Ah, weddings. The one event that guarantees complete immunity from all of the stupid, drunken things people do there. The last wedding I went to there was no alcohol, so I got to observe people in their sober states. Naturally, as a quiet observer of people, I picked up on a few things. (As there is no portal into a woman’s mind, whatever I observe is interpreted through the male mind.)

    What occupied my thoughts the most was the plethora of women in attendance (not in that way, you with a dirty mind). I concluded that the most obvious and central part of a wedding is the bride; she is completely on her own orbit. The other female attendees know this and expect not to be the center of attention.

    Being in this mind frame can lead to one of two general attitudes and feelings women can possess at a wedding: feeling inferior to the bride, inadequate to all those around, and simply unwilling to enjoy being single; or, knowing that you cannot, for etiquette’s sake, top the bride and instead choose to go as you are and not someone you wish you were (read: the bride.)

    The women who take the first route should realize that it’s not their wedding, not yet any way. You aren’t inferior; it’s just not your time yet. Don’t get caught up in wishing it was your special day. I know that girls dream about their wedding day starting in their toddler years, but you can’t let it consume you. It’s one day. One 24-hour day full of expensive trivialities and a lot of stress, then it’s over. Then you actually get to be married.

    The women who take the second route are simply radiant. They know they cannot and should not be bigger than the bride, so they become the next best thing: themselves. They enjoy the free food, fellowship and fun and don’t depress themselves by coveting a date, any date, or a significant other. This was me at the wedding. Social norms would say that it is way easier for a male to be this way than a female, and I would agree. But that doesn’t mean that women can’t buck the norm and actually think how they want to think.

    I confided in a few male compatriots at the wedding about this very issue and they agreed with me wholeheartedly. We agreed that when a woman dresses to impress none other than herself, she does herself, and us, a huge favor. We aren’t necessarily looking for the lowest V-neck or most voluptuous dance moves at a wedding. I’d rather chat with a girl I know is completely sure of herself in body and spirit than dance with a girl who just wants to forget that she’s at a wedding that isn’t hers. Those girls make me look forward to my wedding day even more than I do right now. I love being single, but I know that I will love being married even more (when the time comes).

    I know I’ve generalized the crap out of this observation, but again, this is what I think. Feel free to correct me.