tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70266656718360569422024-03-18T20:46:28.418-07:00That's BorderlineInadvertent commentary on that fine line I try to walkZachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-25336726748287158822013-01-02T12:23:00.002-08:002013-01-02T14:07:32.443-08:00The Today Creed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today, if I
wake up, I will take a deep breath.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I will shake
off yesterday’s vice, stare at the rising sun and blink twice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today I will
touch my toes and drink some water.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I will sing
a rhyme, hum a tune and smile one extra time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today I will
read, write and learn something new.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I will seek the
light, keep my promise and fight the good fight. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today I will
live with purpose and action.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I will
survive a trial, give thanks and go the extra mile. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today I will
have faith, hope and love.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I will step
out of the fray, find quiet and live day by day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today I will
look you in the eye.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I will search
for the path that is straight, for what is real and for what is right. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today I will
remember my inner child.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I will ditch
the frown, jump up, jump up, and get down. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today I will
try my best.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I will fall,
get helped up, and stand tall.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today I will
give someone a hug.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I will shake
hands with a firm grip, do good work and revel in friendship. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today I will
remember from where I come.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I will remember
to whom I belong, whom I trust and who is strong. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today I will
love. I’ll take the dive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today, I
will come alive. </span></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">-Zachary Pyle</span></i></o:p></div>
Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-3223899375902199462012-12-18T15:16:00.002-08:002012-12-18T15:16:59.737-08:00Making the Call<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>“I've been coming here every summer of my adult life, and every summer there she is oiling and lotioning, lotioning and oiling... smiling. I can't take this no more!”</i></b></span><div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>-Squints</i></b></span></div>
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“Make the call.” Said with an authoritative voice, the short
command can add drama to any situation. Whether the Chief of Staff is prompting
the President to order a strike or my dad is telling my mom to pick something from
the menu as the waiter taps his pen on the pad, “make the call” always adds a
sense of urgency.</div>
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“I’m going to make the call.” Said with anticipation and
nervousness, this phrase brings up images of a high school boy calling the cute
girl from math class who sits two rows across him. He’s going to ask her to
prom, but he isn’t sure she will say “yes.” Mustering up enough gumption to ask
the Wendy Peffercorn of your school deserves such a definitive statement. </div>
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“I have to make a call.” Sometimes, we have to make decisions.
Sometimes, these decisions affect just us. Other times, they affect others we don’t even
know. The hardest decisions, though, are those we make that affect loved ones. </div>
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It’s interesting to me that no matter the scenario, “making
the call” brings an issue to a head. The President is going to risk civilian
casualties, Squints is going to jump off the diving board into the deep end,
and a young man decides that taking a job far away from his family and friends
is the best decision. When “making the call,” there is no hiding in aloofness
or ambiguity. In a world where appeasing every side of an issue is a praised
asset in many professions (we call it “political correctness”), we, by default,
stray from “making the call.” </div>
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I think that our society is simultaneously becoming more divided
and becoming watered-down. In politics
in the U.S. and across the world, peoples are divided. Other peoples hate one another as much as
ever, threatening to destroy entire nations. Yet, compared to our ancestors, we
are surprisingly docile. My great grandfather used to beat men up if they wronged
his wife or daughters. He would become furious and instead of calling him to “share
a piece of his mind”, he would let his fists do the talking. And this was
acceptable, as opposed to frowned upon. While I am not advocating violence as
the answer to contested issues, I do find it interesting that we used to dual
instead of debate. We used to put our lives on the line instead of hiding
behind fake screen names, committing libel on anyone who opposed our cause. I
wonder if we would debate things such as how much one man pays on his tax
returns if we had to put our lives on the line for it. </div>
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Whatever the cases may be, “making the call” has never
seemed more difficult. The pressure to please everyone weighs heavily on our
hearts. And if a decision doesn’t feel good, then it probably doesn’t belong.
Making decisions that sting won’t win popularity contests or elections, if
there is a difference. That’s why candidates pander every demographic
imaginable and why I can’t seem to get comfortable in my own skin. You see,
when I try to please everyone, which I have done for years, I always end up
failing. I crash and burn in my own spun-up webs of promises and words. My time
can’t be spilt appropriately in order to make everyone feel special. My actions
always seem to irk one acquaintance the wrong way if I’m trying to please another.
Not everyone can be my best friend. Not everyone can have my full attention.
But in order to fulfill my supposed duty to others, making sure their day is a
good one, I have found myself tripping over my own laces.</div>
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What I must realize is that to truly please others, you have
to be true to yourself. I also need to come to grips with the idea that
pleasing everyone is impossible. While this is a revelation every 4<sup>th</sup>
grader hears during story time, I think that we’ve lost perspective. Our daily
lives have become a balance beam stunt with two back flips and a split leap.
Then, at the end of the night, we dismount, just trying to stick the landing
before collapsing. Our business decisions have become about pleasing stock
holders, for not only do they own the company, they own us. Our beliefs have
become muddled as we try to desperately not to utter them in a way that could
offend. And our social networks billow to hundreds of “friends” with the
capability to eye your every move. </div>
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<i><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“And when I stopped doing that and started thinking about what feels natural and what feels right to me and started pleasing myself, then it became good.” </span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> -Terrence Howard</span></b></i>
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We cannot escape these avenues of social interaction. And we
don’t want everyone to hate us for being selfish or arrogant or stuck in our
ways. But I assure you that if you escape, even for a few moments, the
pressures of this society, you will find clarity much easier to come by. With
that clarity, ask yourself and God what it is you believe, whom it is you
should and want to invest time in, and how far it is you’re willing to go for
those beliefs and those people. </div>
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If all that seems a little much, start with the small
things. Is it good to grab lunch today? Probably an affirmative. Do I believe
that my family deserves a phone call at least once a week? Hopefully true. Once
these questions are being answered, you can start venturing into the bigger
decisions in life. Should I forgive this friend for their wrong? Should I pursue
the girl I have a crush on? Is this the job I should take? All of these things
are tough decisions, and the answers aren’t always clear-cut. But unlike our society,
you can come to a clear decision, even if it doesn’t make everyone happy. Your
answer should reflect clarity, truth, and love. If those characteristics are
there, you may have successfully fled the ambiguity and aloofness of our
society. One way to guarantee it: let Jesus decide for you. It is incredible at
how that simple surrender can relieve burden. Then you are able to find truth
in a difficult situation, own it. Lead with that decision. Make the call. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><b>“If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.” <br />― Émile Zola</b></i>
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Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-89279831850385137892012-09-04T09:13:00.003-07:002012-09-04T09:29:16.732-07:00Crying Like a Baby<br />
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I was watching ESPN the other day. This was fairly
surprising, actually, as over the summer I pretty much stuck to re-run sitcoms
coming on from 5:00 pm – 6:30 pm, So You Think You Can Dance, and Breaking
Bad. But that day, there was a Sports
Center segment that took me down. I was the only one in the house, at that
point, and when the following clip came on, I didn't just tear up, I balled
like a school girl.</div>
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If inspiration comes from within, I was lacking it this
summer. A regular work week was mundane compared to a fast-paced and dynamic
college experience. While my family was great, most of my friends from my
hometown were abroad or working elsewhere. Going to bed at 10:30 pm and waking up at 6:15
am wasn't my bread and butter by any stretch of the imagination. But there I
was, driving a 35 minute commute, making money, and eating three square meals a
day. This was the best I think I could do this summer. I just cranked it out. It
gave me an appreciation for those men and women out there that have the same
job, whether low paying or high, for 25 years. I wonder how they do that. I
suppose it has a lot to do with commitment, a trait I seem to still be
learning. Whether I will be able to draw inspiration from within myself to
start a job after I graduate this year, I am questioning. Without anyone to
work for but myself, will I be able to get up on my own every day and push
through 8 hours at the office? I’m not sure.</div>
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But maybe inspiration comes from others. Maybe I work for
more than just myself. Maybe I work not because I should but because I must. If
a young boy can do everything he can to maximize whatever God gave or didn’t
give him, then certainly I should do the same. When he was given the chance to
walk, even when others told him that he couldn’t, he took it. When he was given
the chance to run, he ran. He didn’t finish first. He finished last. But he
finished. And that’s inspiration enough for me. Enough inspiration, that is, to
floor me emotionally. </div>
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I wonder what chances are being given to me. I’ve been told
the world is at my fingertips. Maybe it is. Maybe I should take hold of it by
horns. But I can’t do that by my own; I need inspiration. I need a hero. Or maybe
I need someone to save. I need not to <i>want
to</i> be the best I can be, whatever that is, but to <i>have to</i> be the best I can be. I need a cheerleader or maybe someone to cheer
for. I need someone to show me how to run. Or maybe I need someone to run to. I
need someone to love me. Or maybe, I just need somebody to love. </div>
Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-38314995081480305292012-06-11T00:14:00.001-07:002012-06-12T07:24:21.385-07:00RISG: Rejection, Part III<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><b>The Follow-Up</b></span><br />
This time on The <a href="http://thatsborderline.blogspot.com/2012/02/romantically-inclined-survival-guide.html">Romantically-Inclined Survival Guide</a>, we
conclude the <a href="http://thatsborderline.blogspot.com/2012/04/risg-rejection-part-i.html">Rejection </a>story. In this case, the girl of my teenage dreams and I
follow up on our date.<br />
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Well boys, this time it isn’t all rainbows and fairytales.
Simply put, this is an anti-climatic conclusion to a story about hope,
rejection, and the lessons learned from a pretty hard fall. </div>
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<a href="http://www.popstarsplus.com/images/TyroneWellsPicture002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.popstarsplus.com/images/TyroneWellsPicture002.jpg" width="254" /></a></div>
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"I need you,</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Need you baby.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: left;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This craving makes me crazy.</span> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm dying inside.</span></div>
</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Baby make up your mind.</span></div>
</span><span style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I need you,</span></div>
</span><span style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Need you baby.</span></div>
</span><span style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm holding on but baby.</span></div>
</span><span style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm dying inside.</span></div>
</span><span style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I cannot hide my need."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">-Tyrone Wells</span></div>
</span></span><br />
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…</div>
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I woke up the next morning faster than ever. As soon as my
alarm clock went off to the tune of Disney music, I sprang out of bed. I was a
boy with determination, purpose, and general excitement about the day ahead-
and then I remembered it was Sunday… Immediately, I sunk back down into the
covers, hoping this terrible nightmare would end and I would wake up to a
bright and shinning Monday morning.</div>
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That was clearly strange thinking, I now realize, but when
you, in the last 8 hours, secured a second date with the girl of your teenage
dreams, you would be ready to see her in the halls between classes too. I
wasn’t dreaming, and so I managed to crawl out my bed, now in the form of a
drowsy, teenage lump. I loafed over to the sink and then realized today might
be worth it after all. I needed to plan, of course, for the next week. The week
when I would engage in what I shall phrase “the follow-up” stage. This stage is
critical in the dating world. It is the stage where rules of thumb such as
“wait three days” or “let her make first contact” drive entire plots in
Hollywood movies. The follow-up is the stage where you either make it happen or
lose it all if you can’t muster the mojo and confidence to ask the dreaded
question that simply begs for rejection: “So… what are you doing this Friday
night?” Let the planning commence. </div>
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“This part should actually be quite easy,” I thought to
myself as I worked my way through my daily routine. ”I already got her to say
‘that sounds nice,’ so I should be in perfect shape.” But of course, it wasn’t
that easy to convince myself that I was in a good position. And so the day went
on, my mind wandering through various scenarios all afternoon. And I try to
tell people I’m spontaneous…</div>
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Monday morning came. It was a beautiful day, just as I
planned. I got to school ready to greet the week with gusto unmatched by any
tall, skinny, underdog in the entire school. I kept my eyes peeled all day
long, looking for Grace. Looking for the girl I couldn’t wait to ask a question
and then to give an answer. I wanted to tell her about my dreams. She had asked
on our last date, and I wanted to tell her so badly. My hopes, my aspirations,
and my longings all boil down to one dream. But before I could tell her, I had
to pursue one more chance to impress the girl I held in such high regard and
that floored me every time I saw her. I had to find her, and I had to ask: “So…
what are you doing Friday night?”</div>
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But I didn’t see her on Monday. So I retreated to my home
for the evening. A thought of calling her, or even texting, crossed my mind. I
almost immediately rejected the notion for a couple of reasons: 1.
Psychologists say that more than half of communication is in body language. It’s
possible they know what they are talking about. 2. I sucked at texting. But the
lesson I had learned from my father to confront situations head-on was
certainly a good one. And I was going to
stick to it.</div>
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Then Tuesday came… And Tuesday went. Still no sign of Grace.
I was beginning to get nervous, and one more day of looking was about all I
could handle. </div>
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Then Wednesday came. As the universe’s not-so-coincidental
ways would have it, Wednesday brought ironic refuge, the moment when you want
to do something that frightens you: There was Grace, being popular, liked,
confident, beautiful, and a hundred other things that I was not. And here I
was, looking like the lanky, uncoordinated, and goofy teenage boy I was. Nonetheless,
my confidence was high, as I was still riding the unbelievable wave that was
last weekend. I strode up to Grace with an embarrassed grin plastered across my
face. As her friends parted ways and ducked into their fourth period math
classes, I caught Grace just as she turned around. The surprise on her face
quickly turned into a cool, collected, and enchanting smile. She greeted me
with a hug. “Is anyone watching this?” I thought to myself as I scanned the
hallway in the over-the-shoulder view I was enjoying in the midst of our
embrace. <b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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“How are you today, Zach? It feels like days since we have
seen each other.” I was melting already.</div>
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“Well, it kind of has been days… hasn’t it?” And… I was
getting awkward. I pulled it together. “Hey, I know we need to head to class
pretty quickly here, but I was wondering if you had plans for Friday night? I
still was hoping to pay you back for your treat the other evening, which I had
a great time at, I should add.” <i>There.
That was smooth, right?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, dang it!” She said it so quickly I was caught off guard.
“I am heading out of town to a ranch this weekend. Sorry!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No worries,” I mumbled. “There’s no rush; we have plenty of
weekends left.” Of course, there was a rush. My heart was pounding and I was
doing all I could to keep my hands from shaking. My second statement was true, though;
there were plenty of weekends left. I took the deal, possible prematurely. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ok, well I will just talk to you next week then? I’m pretty
sure I’m free.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“For sure. I don’t know my plans yet, but let me know what
yours are.” And with a quick smile, she was gone into the abyss of Statistics. The
smile made the whole conversation worth it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the course of the next week, I played my next move in
my head over and over again. I couldn’t use the same wording or one of the only
things I had going for me, creativity, would be lost. I decided on using the “dream”
question. I rejected numerous offers to hang out with friends for the next
Friday night. If Grace was available and I wasn’t, certainly that would blow my
chances with her for good. I carefully selected the outfits I would wear to
school that week. Although, looking back, choosing my “nice t-shirts” to go
with the “clean” cargo shorts in my drawer was probably not the most
sophisticated fashion choice. But I prepared nonetheless. This did little to
calm my still-on-edge nerves. As the next Wednesday came closer, I awaited my
ironic refuge. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so it came. The same place, the same time, one week
later. The same approach. The same surprise. The same smile. The same me, being
awkward and nervous. A different line: “So, I still haven’t gotten to answer
the question you asked. And I have more questions for you.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a moment her eyes lit up and her smile broadened. My
hope was rising. My anticipation reached a peak. But in the end, it was the
same result. “I have plans with my girl friends this Friday. I’m so sorry...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine me, at this point, knowing I was down in the count. I
just swung twice. Two strikes in a row, although I am going to call the “that
sounds nice” as a ball. I will also count the results of the “random” raffle
and the date as balls, just for proper record-keeping’s sake. That made gave a
3-2 count and one pitch to get a hit. The next week would be the bottom of my
ninth inning. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walked into Calculus, my fourth period class, and couldn’t
pay attention the entire time. Derivatives? Who cares? The only thing I could
derive was that my situation looked grim. Not only did I have to throw the
pitch of my life, but I also had to get a hit. Since when have even the
professionals been asked to do that? I picked my head up: I was down, but not
out. At least not yet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next week rolled around. If this was movie, music by
John Williams would be shrilling in the background as I fast-pace-walked toward
math class. Then, with a sudden key change and decrescendo, my approach to
Grace would be accompanied by an ominous march, led by a snare. An unwavering
beat signaled my march toward romantic destiny. This was my chance to be
something more, someone that someone else cared about and was attracted toward.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the entrance of a low hum of the cellos, I stopped in
front of Grace. The nonchalant scene does not match the terrified trebling I
feel inside. The music begins to fade in and the camera centers on my face as I
throw my pitch. By the time the camera angle has changed toward grace, the
entire orchestra swings into dissonance, ready to be resolved. The smile on
Grace’s face, although you cannot hear her words, shows sympathy. The audience
already knows what has happened, and the orchestra confirms, with the dissonant
chord quickly cut off into a lone French horn. The horn is beautiful, like she
is. It is full of life and potential and it begs to be joined. But it never is,
because I struck out. I went down. And I went down swinging. The horn plays me
out of the hallway before the professor shuts the door and welcomes me back to
my reality: a life unfair and alone. Queue the credits.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I learned a lot since those few weeks in high school. I
learned how to move on, and that it takes a little time. I learned that high
school is a really tough place to date, anyway. I learned that girls in
California are a completely different breed. I learned that being single can be
great. I learned that you have to look before you leap, and that blind love,
while enchanting, is a dangerous thing. I learned that rejection is hard from
both ends. I learned that sometimes it’s ok to not pick yourself up by your bootstraps,
that others will be there to help. I learned that I am not alone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, rejection sucks. But that doesn’t mean you can’t live through
it. Find the people that will always be there for you. Lean on them. They <i>want</i> to be leaned on. If you are
rejected, don’t search relentlessly for the answer of why. That takes too much
energy. Instead, bask in the notion that you are not alone. Life is full of
rejection, and it is comforting, although it may not seem like it at the time,
to know that rejection will prove to make you better. So next time you get
rejected, listen to some country music with your best friend. Take a shower and
eat some chocolate ice cream. Wake up the next morning, go for a run, and
stretch it out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then come to a fantastic conclusion:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes life isn’t fair. But then again, neither is grace.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-81073353766589301522012-05-05T19:09:00.000-07:002012-05-05T19:14:56.642-07:00RISG: Rejection, Part II<h2>
The Date</h2>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time on <a href="http://thatsborderline.blogspot.com/2012/02/romantically-inclined-survival-guide.html">The Romatically-Inclined Survival Guide</a>, we see
more of the girl of my teenage dreams, as introduced in <a href="http://thatsborderline.blogspot.com/2012/04/risg-rejection-part-i.html">Part I</a>. In fact, she
and I go on a date. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Men, sometimes you have to pull out all the stops. Maybe they are fancy and complicated, maybe
you only have four days to prepare, no money, and only a casual date to pull it
off. In those circumstances, it is about
showing who you really are. And the girl
wants you to know who she is. Girls love
honesty, and they can give it (as some may have experience) and sense it better
than we can. Sometimes <b>she and</b> <b>you</b> are “all the stops.” Be genuine... Also, it never hurts to have at least one
trick up your sleeves. This is part II
of a story about hope, rejection, and the lessons learned from a pretty hard
fall.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://thelibrarianreads.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/redeeming_love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://thelibrarianreads.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/redeeming_love.jpg" width="211" /></a><br />
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span style="text-align: justify;">"Michael Hosea was a quiet man, but there wasn't anything soft about him. There was something in his look that made men treat him with respect. It wasn't just his height or the strength of his body, which were both impressive enough. It was the clear steadiness of his gaze. He knew what he was about even if the rest of the world didn't."</span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
--Francine Rivers, <u><a href="http://francinerivers.com/books/redeeming-love">Redeeming Love</a></u></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
It was 6:15
pm on a Friday night. I hopped out of the shower and drying my hair to Earth,
Wind, and Fire’s<i> </i>“<i>September</i>”. Twisting my hips between the towel to a beat,
and such a funky one at that, was always more entertaining than silence. And I needed to get psyched up.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why am I
showering at 6:15 pm on a Friday night?
Why do I need to get psyched up? Because tonight is my big night. Tonight is the night that I take the girl of
my teenage dreams on a date! Or, rather, she takes me out on a date. But importance can be lost in the
details. Grace and I are going out on a
date! With the mantra “do you remembah?”
increasing my mojo as the 70s song faded out, my ipod’s shuffle feature snapped
me back into reality by blasting some of my sister’s Hannah Montana in my face.
As soon as I could scamper, wet feet and all, and click the next button with gratifying
punctuation, shuffle again did me some wonders. <i>“Let’s
Get Down to Business”</i> from Mulan came on. “Ok,” I muttered. “Let’s do this
thing.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh motherrrrr!”
I yelled out of my bedroom door. “What the heck am I supposed to wear on a
reverse-date?!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When my mom
finally made it over to my room, I had settled on what I thought was a
perfectly acceptable pair of cargo shorts and a polo. I asked her what she thought. She did one of those things that every girl
does when they don’t approve of something.
She looked up up-down-and-up again. Then she squinted and wrinkled her
nose, pursing and raising the right side of her lips. (Men, women don’t have to say anything- their
faces tell all. Just look for the
wrinkled nose. I promise.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
After trying
what seemed like fifteen different outfits, which apparently isn’t a lot, we had
our choice picked out. Pretty simple
stuff: blue jeans, a pair of my dad’s Sperrys, and a casual button-up shirt on
which I had to roll up the sleeves because they were too short. But hey, I didn’t look half bad for an
awkward teenager with confidence issues. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She pulled
up at 7:02 pm to pick me up on what turns out to be only one of three awkward
reverse-date directives. Exactly two
minutes late. “Is she perfect or what,” I thought to myself. I jumped out the front door before she could
come say hello to my entire family, who were practically drooling to poke fun
at me for my obvious crush and subsequent nervousness. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I opened the
passenger door and almost tripped over myself getting into the car. She sat their smiling that stunning smile. Her hazel eyes seemed to shimmer in the evening
sun. She is beautiful because she is
genuine. An untainted beauty in a stained
world. The slightest imperfection,
invisible to me, must have been the only thing that could have confirmed her
reality. “God did good on this one,” I
thought as I climbed into the car.
Country music from a mix CD was playing.
A mix CD, a woman after my own heart.
“You think you look beautiful,” I confessed. She just giggled sheepishly and thanked me as
we pulled away. I looked over at her and
told myself I had nothing to lose. This
was our time, at last.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Chili’s is a
classic high school first-date spot. It
has a relaxed atmosphere, isn’t too expensive, and can be as long or as quick you
want it to be. Well, we were there two
and a half hours. Just talking, eating,
and sipping on our drinks. Mostly
talking. Two and a half hours! Much of the conversation revolved around our
past together. The camp we grew up going
to, high school drama, and favorite things we are going to miss when we go away
for college. We talked about music,
dancing, and movies. About the Spurs,
our Alamo Heights Mules, and the UT-A&M rivalry. Where we had come from and where we wanted to
go. What we wanted to be when we grew up
and what our parents wanted us to be. I
had no clue time was passing in such length, and I didn’t care. The best part was she didn’t either. We were honestly lost in one another’s eyes
and words. I never wanted to break that
eye contact, but after a couple of dirty glances from the waitress, Grace paid
(the second awkward directive ) and we left.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Wow, I can’t
believe we were there for so long!” The
way she said that made me think she was a little embarrassed. But it was hard
to tell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It was so
great to catch up after so long. Why don’t we ever see each other?” My plan was
getting its feet under it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“That is a
great question. We will just have to change that,” she told me cheerfully. “What
do you want to do next? It’s already 9:45.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I wasn’t panicked. This was my chance, and I had come fully prepared. About a month prior to this happened, I had
dreaming of this chance… “We could take
a walk around Border’s, there are always funny folks in there.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We headed
over to Border’s, a giant book store in the same strip mall as Chili’s. We meandered around the store, she laughing
at magazines with celebrities on the covers and myself making nerdy comments
about Popular Mechanics. We meandered
upstairs to the fiction section, and by perfect design, over the to the
Christian-fiction section. I stopped at
C.S. Lewis, muttering something vaguely intelligent so that she would stop and
look at the back of the book. I continued
on, glancing from book spine to book spine, searching for one novel in
particular. Then my searching eyes
caught it. I nonchalantly strolled over
and picked a copy of <u>Redeeming Love</u> by Francine Rivers. Thumbing through the romance novel, I looked
up at Grace, her expression already a combination of excitement and anticipation.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I read this
about a month ago. Picked it up one
morning and couldn’t put it down, just a really great story. Have you read it?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
She just looked at me. It was
almost as if she was about to cry but then she started talking at light speed,
the way only girls can. I caught the gist
of the verbal burst of confetti. “-
favorite book! - can’t believe a guy- oh my gosh!” All were some form of appreciation of my
reading of the story of a broken heart being healed. And there was a lot of appreciation. I tried to look shocked through the whole
thing. But let’s face- I knew it was
coming all along. About a couple months
prior, I overheard one of her friends say that <u>Redeeming Love</u> was her
favorite novel. And it never hurts to
get inside your crush’s favorites list. Playing
clueless just seemed like more a fun way to play it, rather than spill my status
as an expert eavesdropper. And boy, did
it work. It was the card up my sleeve. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
Don’t get me wrong. I really
did enjoy the book. It is an amazing
story, and I really couldn’t put it down.
But what I loved more: talking about the novel and the storylines with
Grace until the store closed at 10:30.
She had some great insights and for the first time, I got to see the
softer, inner heart of this girl. All I
wanted to do was listen to her, and all she wanted to do was to have someone
listen. That night, for those thirty
minutes, I was that someone. I had
broken that barrier. I knew, even if it
was just a little, some of her heart.
And for that, I didn’t think she could forget me. I knew I would never forget her. Most of the time, I’m told, those feelings
are mutual. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
Maybe this isn’t random. Maybe
this is more than a crush. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
The rest of the night was amazing.
We couldn’t stop talking. About
her, about me, about anything and everything.
We stargazed in a sketchy park called “Blue Grass Park” that she didn’t
believe existed. Then we ran to the car
out of only-moderately-pretend-fear that we were going to get shot. We almost died from laughter in the car as my
jokes were hitting just right. <i>The girl of my teenage dreams was laughing
my jokes. </i> We went to Starbucks,
where we both got Peppermint Hot Chocolate.
We sat on the patio where we did one of my favorite activities. I don’t really know what it is called, but we
simply asked each questions, one at a time.
Each question is intentional, a personal question meant to get to know
the other person in ways that you didn’t previously. We went back and forth for almost an
hour. Then it was almost midnight, and
subsequently, curfew. Just as I was suggesting,
at my greatest hesitation, we should get back, she asked the last question: “What
is your dream?” I froze and then irked
out a smile. Then I paused for a couple
of moments and said one more time that it was getting late.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
I didn’t answer the question
that night, but I promised her that I would some other time. She looked forward to it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
As we pulled back up to my
house, she walked me to the door (final awkward directive of
reverse-dates). As I was pulling out my
keys, she just looked at me. Was it
longing? I don’t know. But for the courage I was going to need for my
next move, I pretended it was:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
“I had a lot of fun tonight,” I said with slight exhaustion but full
sincerity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
“It was a really great night.
I am so glad we did this. I just
feel like we never see each other anymore.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
“I know. We should really
change that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
“And I want to hear your answer.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
“And I have more questions for you…” There was pause.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
“Well… good night.” We hugged
for a solid twenty seconds. It was a
strong hug, and I felt so good having her wrapped up in my arms. Her head was resting on my chest, and I’m
certain she could hear my heartbeat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
As we parted, she turned to walk down the steps of our porch. “Hey! I would really like to answer that
question after I pay you back for this evening.
You know, do it the old-fashioned way.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
I waited.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
“I would like that, I think.” She gave me one last smile and turned
to walk toward her car. I opened the
door to my house, stood there until she made it safely to the car, and waved
goodbye as she drove off. I closed the
door slowly. And then I collapsed on the
nearest couch. For a few moments, I was perfectly
still. I was giving myself a firm
reality check. <i>Did that really just
happen? ... Yep. </i> I jumped up with
more confidence that I had ever felt before.
I sauntered to my room, threw on my pajamas, and brushed my teeth long
and good. Then I slept the sleep of a
satisfied man. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 363.75pt;">
There was so much more than just hope. </div>
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<br /></div>
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to be continued… </div>
</div>Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-62731430915250819832012-04-22T16:15:00.002-07:002012-05-06T22:12:12.094-07:00RISG: Rejection, Part I<h2>
The Raffle</h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gentlemen, every man faces rejection at some point. This time on the <a href="http://thatsborderline.blogspot.com/2012/02/romantically-inclined-survival-guide.html">Romantically-Inclined Survival Guide</a>, we will take a look at that fact. Some receive
more than others. But every man faces
rejection. If he does not, he is not
striving for enough. He is not pushing himself enough. In the romantic world, rejection can be
especially painful. We fall hard for a
girl. And by fall, I mean flat on our
faces fall. But there is more than that
one girl and more than that rejection.
This is a story about hope, rejection, and the lessons learned from a
pretty hard fall. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://blogs.houstonpress.com/artattack/sly-stallone-born-powerful1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="266" src="http://blogs.houstonpress.com/artattack/sly-stallone-born-powerful1.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="text-align: center;">"I take rejection as someone blowing a bugle in my ear to wake me up and get going, rather than retreat.</span><span style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 1pt; border-image: initial; border-left-color: windowtext; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 1pt; border-right-color: windowtext; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 1pt; border-top-color: windowtext; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 1pt; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-style: initial;">”</span></span><br />
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<br />
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<span style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 1pt; border-image: initial; border-left-color: windowtext; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 1pt; border-right-color: windowtext; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 1pt; border-top-color: windowtext; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 1pt; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><span style="border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-style: initial;">-- Sylvester Stallone</span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
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It was senior year of high school. As you take yourself back to high school,
imagine for a moment any high school movie with an underdog, average, but
likeable guy. In this case, he plays
soccer, is tall and lanky, and has a good group of friends. But he can’t touch the “popular” crowd, and
by all rationale, has no reason to try (or really want to). In these movies, though, there is always one
girl. That one girl is transcendent of cliques. She is beautiful, kind enough to look him in
the eye, and wasn’t corrupted by the plastic nature of her cheerleader
friends. She has known the boy for quite
some time, often since childhood, and she asks him to help her out with things
like Calculus homework.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, as we all know, without a special circumstance, the boy
doesn’t stand a chance. Hollywood, tauntingly,
always provides. In this case, there is
a raffle. But not just any raffle. No, this raffle peaks the boy’s interest. This
raffle isn’t just a fundraiser. This is a chance.<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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The girl, naturally, is on Student Council for the senior
class. She holds an office, which, in high school, is made up of mostly girls
because guys are too busy playing sports and creating mischief over the
weekends. For this year’s fundraiser,
the aforementioned raffle will be dealing out “reverse-dates.” You buy a
ticket, and you have a chance to win a date with the girl you bought the ticket
from, all expenses paid by the girl. It offered hope to any guy that either
wanted to donate money to some good cause – or, in most cases, to get a date
with the apple of his eye.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, the young man, we will call him Zach (that’s me),
strained over the smoothest, most non-obvious way to buy tickets from the girl,
who we will call Grace (not her actual name).
This, of course, was crucial to the plan. If my true objectives were spilled,
I would seem like I hated society and the poor. Or worse, I would be seen a
creepy stalker with some desire for a girl I can’t actually bring myself to
have a real conversation despite the fact that she is lovely and nice. Oh wait,
that is every high school kid ever. Nonetheless, I need to be smooth. </div>
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<br /></div>
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“How many should I buy? One, two, ten? At two dollars apiece, I’m not sure I can
afford ten. Should I buy them on the
first day? The last day? Right after a bunch of guys bought some? Where the
heck am I going to get this cash?” All of these thoughts spun in my head. I had
one week to purchase the tickets and the rest would be up to the gods. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, seven days past.
I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I knew that if I purchased those tickets, it would possibly be my last
interaction with her in a one-on-one situation.
I could hold on to this “dream” of a perfect conversation ending up in a
date, but it would certainly be shattered as soon as I spoke to her. As I was leaving school, dejected that I had
blown my last chance, someone called out my name. As I spun around,and just as
Hollywood would have it, she stood there. Her sunlit smile and the slight-breeze-blown
did her wonders. She was beautiful and walking straight towards me at one of
those girl-scampers that looks completely ridiculous if a guy does it but is
really cute when a girl does. She was holding a bag of tickets in her left hand.
I snapped out of my trance and looked up: “Hello Grace.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Hey Zach! I haven’t seen you in forever,” she said cheerfully.
“I was just about to take my tickets to the office, but I am trying to grab
some more donations from anyone I can. Would you be interested?”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I played it off as if I hadn’t even heard of the fundraiser.
She explained it to me, I think, but I wasn’t really keeping track of her
words, only her smile and the way her eyes sparkled when she giggled at the circumstance.
I mumbled replies, and eventually blurted
something audible out. “Sounds like a
great cause! Let me see what I have in my wallet.” I only had four dollars.
Crap. “This is all I have on me. But I
hope it helps,” I muttered as I wrote my name on two tickets. I handed her the
last tubes of life support on which my nonexistent love-life survived. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I pulled the plug and walked away… I didn’t look back. </div>
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<br /></div>
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--</div>
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<br /></div>
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A couple days later, I was sitting in English class next to
my best friend, Knox. He was pretty
popular but hung out with me because we had been good friends since 4<sup>th</sup>
grade. We liked each other because we
were both tall and we really could never shut each other up. As if sent by God to interrupt our
conversation on <u>Wuthering Heights</u>, an office aid walked into Mr. Carroll’s
English class and handed him an envelope.
“Knox, you have a letter.” Knox
accepted the letter and without any tact or hesitation, ripped it open. It was
a letter saying he had won a date with our good friend Marissa, who was also on
the Council.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Immediately, I knew the rumors were true. Every letter that
had been handed out so far indicated this hypothesis. This raffle was not
random. Every girl had picked the guy she wanted to go with. Marissa wasn’t interested
in any of the other guys around school, so this would just be a friendly, easy
date. Other girls “drew” their prom dates or boyfriends out of the “random” raffle. Now, not even the romantic forces that offer
a good kid his chance, were out of play.
It was worthless to hope any longer.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just when I began to get my mind off of the hopelessness
that I had suffered, another aid walked in. After a few moments, Mr. Carroll
called my name. I retrieved my letter. On it was written <i>Zachary Pyle</i> in a girl’s smooth, gel-pen handwriting. “There is no way this is possible,” I thought
to myself. At first, I couldn’t open the
letter. I didn’t think they were handing
out rejection letters, but maybe I deserved a special one with some sort of condolence. Eventually, and I’m talking a full 30 seconds
later, Knox made me open it. </div>
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<br /></div>
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“Dear Zach, </div>
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<br /></div>
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Congratulations! Your name has been drawn as a result of
your donation! …. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
….Please contact Grace at #xxx-xxx-xxxx in order to set up
your reverse-date! Enjoy your Valentine’s Day!”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I let it sink in for a couple moments, rereading the letter
to make sure there wasn’t a triple negative hidden somewhere. There wasn't. And then my world spun 180 degrees. Yes, I'm saying there's a chance. </div>
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<br /></div>
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This wasn’t random.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://thatsborderline.blogspot.com/2012/05/risg-rejection-part-ii.html">to be continued…</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-19341651274398103472012-03-08T00:55:00.001-08:002012-03-16T01:38:50.635-07:00The Romantically-Inclined Survival Guide: The Serenade<b style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Objective</b><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">: Woo
Woman of Interest</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Process</b>: The ancient
art form of The Serenade</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Location</b>: Pretty
Much Anywhere</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Equipment/Skills
Needed</b>: Instrument, singing voice (good or bad), practice, confidence, mojo</span></div>
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<a href="http://sphotos.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/420519_2949127200545_1032281973_32880581_208124376_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://sphotos.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/420519_2949127200545_1032281973_32880581_208124376_n.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
--<br />
Wait? What is the <a href="http://thatsborderline.blogspot.com/2012/02/romantically-inclined-survival-guide.html">Romantically-Inclined Survival Guide</a>?<br />
--</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The day before Valentine’s Day, I was wandering about the
second floor of my dorm tower creating chit-chat and calming down obnoxious
freshmen. While this is my job, I also
enjoy spending time with my residents, as they always seem to have fun things
going on in their lives. Of course, the chit-chat that I created, on February 13<sup>th</sup>,
was about expectations for the next day. The question of the night, as I
phrased to the ladies was this:</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Here’s the situation: It’s Valentine’s Day. A guy friend, that you know pretty well but
mostly just hang out in groups, approaches you.
Keep in mind that you consider him a friend. There may be a knock on your door or he may
chase you down in the middle of the UU Plaza. Either way, he is holding a guitar,
and right then and there, he begins to serenade you. Of course, you listen, completely surprised.
When he is finished, he asks you: “Will you be my Valentine?” What do you say? Keep in mind, you don’t know what he will
take out of you saying ‘yes’ to this simple request. Oh, and here’s the catch:
he’s <i>not</i> cute.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Usually, this was followed by a series of complaints. “That’s not fair, Zach” or “Why do I have to
answer this?” were common protests given by the ladies. But, gentlemen, keep in mind that girls love
to answer these types of questions, and with a little prodding and a smile,
they will most always answer. Attention
given to them in the form of a romantic fantasy, or even nightmare, is a sure
way to secure a constant flow of roundabout conversation that will leave you
sitting politely. If you want the girl
to babble, these are the kinds of questions that get them going. And when a girl babbles about romance, be
that her future wedding, a future husband, or a dream date, she nearly always
has a positive memory of that situation.
And guess who was in that positive memory? You. </div>
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<br /></div>
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One lady’s objection, though, caught my attention. One of my girls, Brooke, said that there was
no way that she would ever be serenaded because no guy would do that for her. She complained that it was “not even worth it
to get my hopes up.” Obviously, I had to
prove her wrong…</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next night, Brooke was working at one of the nearby
dining halls during the “Late Night” shift.
I grabbed my guitar, some chords to “Forever and Ever, Amen” by Randy
Travis, and some resident as backup.
Strumming the entire way to the dining hall, I built up my
confidence. By the time we reached our
destination, however, the reverse effect had occurred. I was trembling a little bit but only to
where I could tell. My voice was ready
to crack and my loosely thrown-together plans were running into road blocks
left and right. There was loud music on
in the dining hall, and there were more people than I expected at 12:30
am. I quickly and stealthily asked the
manager to turn down the music, and my wish was granted. It was game time. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I strode up to Brooke, mustering all the swagger I could, while
she was making burritos, and I simply started strumming. Pretty immediately, she figured out what was
happening and turned to beet-red. When I
started singing, the first couple of notes were so far off, I thought about
walking out right then and there. But I
pressed on, and with a measure or two, I found my stride. My mock-Randy-Travis voice was intact and
those awesome words were flowing. Then,
as I looked up from my chord sheet, I was stunned to find that Brooke had retreated
to continue to make burritos for other customers. This really threw me off, but I pressed on, so
much as to raise my voice a little and sing with some enthusiasm. After one verse and a chorus, I ended the
song with a personalized “forever and ever, miss Brooke.” Applause broke out from almost everybody in
the dining hall, as I was now the clear center of attention, everyone except
for Brooke. She simply stood there,
still red as the Valentine’s decorations that hung from the ceiling, with an embarrassed
smile and mouthed “thank you.” That was
enough for me, and I retreated to the confines of my dorm, after grabbing a
late-night burrito, of course.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in the tower, after all the babble and giggling, the
majority of the girls on the second floor said that they just couldn’t turn
down a good serenade. Some even said
they would say ‘yes’ even if he was a bad singer. The first conclusion was something I think
most men could venture to guess, but even I was a little surprised by the shear
pity and “cute” factor that a poor rendition can produce. But what if the girl you are going for is one
that has higher standards? How do you
prepare to blow her away? Below is your Survival Guide to the Serenade. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<b><u>Step 1: Pick a
Song</u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a key step.
It should be a song you already know, preferably. Some considerations
and recommendations.</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">First off, the song you pick better have a
romantic tone. The word “love” is a strong indicator of the romantic aspect of
a song. </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Note: just because a song says “I
love you,” does not mean that you ACTUALLY “love” the girl at hand.</i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> Music
has that artistic license to it, so don’t worry about going in over your head. </span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">If the girl of interest and yourself share a
favorite genre or song, that could be a good way to go.</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Make sure
the vocal range of the song matches yours, and if you are going to be playing
an instrument, the song should be easily played on that instrument. For those
of you with proficiency in a particular instrument, transposing a song or
covering a song is only recommended if it makes the song more romantic. Make
sure the song is still recognizable, though.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Keep in mind that while you are singing, the
girl will just be listening to you silently. This can be awkward if not dealt
with correctly. If you are singing to her in a public place or surprising her,
keep the song to a verse or two and a chorus or two. In private, you could use
a full song if you like.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">The song should </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">mean </i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">something special to you. If you heart is in the song, you
will be golden, even if you sing it poorly. Girls especially feel when a man
gets emotional. And they eat it up.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Writing a song for a girl is best saved for once
a relationship is getting more serious. The only exception may be if the song
is about a crush and is funny, but keep in mind that songs unfamiliar to girls
will be harder for them to relate to.</span></li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>Step 2: Prepare</u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This seems obvious. But the only way that you will have
confidence and mojo, two things you will need, is to get some practice in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Memorize the song. That way, you can break it
out whenever the opportune moment arises and you don’t have to have someone
hold lyrics or chords for you. That can be awkward.</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Practice outside. Many times, a serenade may
occur outside, for various reasons. I promise now that you will sound different
to yourself outside as opposed to inside.</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Figure out when you might be able to break-out
your primed tune. On a date? In the middle of campus? Below her window (Romeo
style)? My personal preference would be to meet for “just hanging out” in my
room and then slowly work my way into the song by first starting with some
chords while we are talking. But I give mad props to the men who bring out the
surprise serenade: “Oh, what’s this? We happened to be at the beach at sunset,
and my guitar, which you didn’t even know I played, happens to be in my trunk?
Wow, what a coincidence!?!” </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Cheesy? Yes. Effective? Absolutely.</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>Step 3: Engage
Wooing <o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’re ready. Its bags are packed. Just send it home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Build up some confidence. Smile. Prepare her by
hinting at your feelings toward what is about to happen. Being nervous is ok.
In fact, girls love that stuff. The idea that a guy she (maybe) likes is about
to something endearing and he is a little nervous is Hollywood quality material.
Just slowly break out the guitar and watch her light up, turn bright red, and
grin to yourself, knowing you are already 80% of the way there.</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Employ mojo. This is accomplished strumming your
guitar to hear the notes you’re about to sing. Slowly hit some keys on your
piano. Talk to her. Look her in the eyes. Don’t break eye contact first. Just
say that you “have a little something [you] would like to show [her]…. It’s
nothing really. But I know you really like Gavin DeGraw. I’ve got nothing on
him, but, hey, the song is amazing.” The gigglier she gets and the more you
hear the notes and chords in your strumming pattern, the more mojo you build.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Start singing. From here, you are pretty much a
winner. Starting the song will be the hardest part. Once you get going, don’t
forget to make eye contact. A quick glance as you hit a high note will take her
breath away.</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>Step 5: Romantic
Few Lines + Hug/Kiss<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are some perks to wooing a woman, you know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Symbol; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">The romantic lines will be another survival
guide.</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">The hug/kiss. Well, you can figure that out easy
enough. (You may not get one of these if you pull a Romeo and are at a
distance.) Of course, you many choose to bypass this all-together in order to play the mysterious-but-still-moderately-distant-but-totally-into-her-thing</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well done, man. You have just completed a serenade. Go grab
a drink to sooth your masculine but emotional vocal chords or watch the sunset
with a girl wrapped up in your arms. Either way, you most succeeded. If you did
not, fear not. Some women will, however ironic this is, flee from an endearing
act. But fear not, you are laying a foundation. Do not be disheartened, but be
confident that you have followed in the footsteps of some of the greatest
romantics in the world. They have climbed great heights, but none without
setting up a base camp. </div>Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-32319389371650723412012-02-23T17:43:00.000-08:002012-02-23T17:44:09.086-08:00The Romantically-Inclined Survival Guide<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>**Note to the female readers out there: The Romantically-Inclined Survival Guide will be written primarily for men. But keep in mind, someone famous probably once said: "It is good to know your enemy, but even better to know what your enemy thinks about you." While men and women are not enemies, we are about as aloof to one another as battling generals. That being said, you are welcome to read these posts (and maybe even offer some hints.)** </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you have read “The University Union” or know me at all
personally, then you know that I take particular interest in the species known
to man simply as “woman.” While I
certainly claim to know of their existence, let me be frank and honest up
front: I am no expert. The “woman” is a
complex creature. In fact, if you read
the Bible, God created the “woman” last.
In my mind, I am pretty sure this is because they were so complicated,
God needed an extra day to put together all the in’s and out’s. Over thousands of years, “women” have puzzled
us men. We can’t quite figure them out,
and we probably never will. I don’t
claim to be able to unlock the secrets the “woman,” but I can give you some
basic survival tips that may prove exactly what you need to get just close
enough to the species to see them smile and make eye contact. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>But beware: “women” are known to cause serious emotional confusion,
heartache, lapse in proper judgment, excessive spending, and falling hard… very
hard. <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before we delve into the various segments of survival of
women, we must first learn our basics (if those even exist). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Woman, also known as female, lady, gal, Miss, Ms., babe,
doll, chick, or dame arises from the maturation of a girl, also known as
damsel, lassie, or mademoiselle. The
maturation is known to involve both physical and mental changes, although many
of the details are still unknown to man. Try to think of it like evolving a
Pokémon, but without the notification and cool metamorphosis. Some clear signs of maturation include but
are not limited to: increased sassiness, pickiness, mysteriously long shower
times, and the emergence of birthing hips. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once the girl becomes a woman, she starts to transition from
the phenomena of “cute” to the state that is most often described as
“beautiful.” While this state is one
that thousands of musicians have tried to describe over hundreds of years, none
quite capture the hope and devastation that beauty can cause. This, men, is where we must be most cautious. But, alas, even as I mention caution, I know
we are not. As Aaron Watson puts so well, “she was young, I was wild, we were reckless.”
With the guts to attempt a wooing and
the stomach ready to be hit with that sinking feeling of defeat, we will press
on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Women have historically made up approximately 50% of the
world’s population, but they account for over 95% of the world’s glitter
usage. They also account for over 72% of
phone calls over 2 minutes long and 93% text/chat conversations that would be
better served as phone calls. Women,
although it is a common misconception, do actually use the restroom for more
than crying and gossip. But crying and
gossip are the two most-cited reasons for the “I have to go to the restroom.
–Ok. I will go with you” move that the they pull all the time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gentlemen, although this may seem like a trick being played
you, it is actually an opportunity. Two
(or four) can play at the game of deciphering the opposite gender’s moves by
hasty discussion. If women choose to do
this in the ladies’ room, then we have the table to reference past experience
in preparation for the next move of the game that is known as romance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the time that you have and with today’s technology, my
hope is that you may be able to reference the Romantically-Inclined Survival
Guide (RISG) for those moments when you are in a pinch. Or between a rock and a hard place. Or when the girl ordered off the kid’s menu
and you are trying to figure out what the heck that means. Or when she has brought her best friend when
you thought it was a one-on-one date. Or
when you think you are blowing it. Or
when you realize that she hates Italian food. And these are just date scenarios. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe we haven’t even gotten that special woman on a date
yet, and maybe we have no idea about how to do that. Maybe the special woman is your mom, and you
have no idea what to get her for her birthday or Mother’s Day. Maybe your sister is about enter a
relationship. How do you make sure the guy is legit? All these situations and many more will be
addressed by the Romantically-Inclined Survival Guide. Get ready, it’s going to be a wild ride. This is real. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My name is not Bear Grylls. I have not served in the British Special
Forces. I have not climbed to the top of
Everest. I haven’t even had a girlfriend
for more than a few months. But I am going
to put myself in dangerous situations, in an attempt to show you how to
survive. </div>Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-17654470878600792482012-02-19T18:17:00.000-08:002012-02-19T18:17:11.384-08:00A Better Society QuestionSo, the other day I was at the Civil Engineering Career Fair here at Cal Poly. Yes, Civil Engineering had 39 companies to ourselves. They like us. Obviously, I was unsuccessful in my continual search for an internship this summer. Most people can't get past my average GPA or the fact that I have no previous experience in engineering. But I gotta ask, how do most people get their start? Oh, wait, they have to <i>start </i>somewhere? That's what I thought.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Anyway, I got to talking to a lady in the HR department of a particular transportation company of which I was interested. We were chatting it up, and there was no one behind me to give me the evil that I always get when I talk to reps about nothing but our personal lives. As we were talking, we got around to my resume, which is filled with people-oriented jobs and strengths. Not many engineer reps give a whaddly-doo about the fact that I was a camp counselor or am a RA. They tend to want to see numbers close to 4.0 or a company title with a couple of ambiguous last names followed by Eng. Corp. or something like that. HR folks are different. They like to hear about my first love, people. And in particular, kids.<br />
<br />
This HR lady, Cathy, we will call her, wanted to hear all of my stories. When we got around to her 5, 7, and 9 year-old children, I sympathized with the busy life she must leave. Cathy ate this up. In fact, she ate it up so much that this is what she told me:<br />
"Zach, I can't hire you as an engineer. In fact, I don't even think you are in the right major. What I would hire you for, is to be a teacher. You are in the wrong major; you should change to something that you could really teach with, because you would be an amazing teacher."<br />
<br />
This really took me for a whirl. I thought to myself that she was crazy. I am at a top university getting a great degree with tons of hiring potential. When was the last time 39 schools showed up to hire education students right out of school? I would have no idea. But afterwards, I really go to thinking, less about whether I was really going to change my major, that isn't going to happen. What I really thought about what would be better?<br />
<br />
Is it better to change the way society runs, which would be my ultimate goal as a transportation engineer? To bring about change in our environment, mentality, and use of resources as a society. Or is better to change the lives of a few that live within the society already created. All pride aside, I think I could do either. One as an engineering, one as a teacher.<br />
<br />
So, help me out. Is it better to change lives on an individual basis or create a better society as a whole?Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-89602484998935984212012-01-24T14:33:00.000-08:002012-01-24T17:38:52.115-08:00Blake: In Romans vs Barbarians<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My name is Zach. And this is my dream come true through the
eyes of a 10-year-old boy named Blake. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
--</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My name is Blake, and I like cats. I hope my cats are doing
ok at home. I am sure that my mom is taking care of them. Yes, I certainly have
nothing to worry about. The cats will be just fine. But I can’t wait to see them and my mom. I
really miss her. She is so good at being a mom. She is the only who really
understands me. She knows that I like strawberry jelly instead of grape and,
somehow, she always fixes me when I am hurt. I hate getting hurt. Some boys
like it, but I am not like other boys. No, I prefer to be civilized and read.
Why would I hurt myself in a dangerous game when I could read a good story? I
like English way better than P.E. I am definitely not like other boys…</div>
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</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
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“Blake! Get with the rest of the cabin! We are going down to
the tribal meeting!” Counselor Cody is
always telling me to get with the cabin. At camp, we run around constantly and
sometimes I just want to sit and think. As the sun sets, and the first stars
come out, I think about my cats. Did you know that the stars are really just
places where passed-away cats go? I’m pretty sure it’s true. “Blake! Let’s go!”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Alllright. I’m coming,” I say as I try to stuff my undone
shoelace into the side of my shoe. There is no time to tie my shoes tonight.
Normally, girls are the last to get everywhere. But tonight, there are no
girls, so I am last. No girls, as it turns out, makes things more irritating.
We had to play a game that I’m pretty sure was meant to get us hurt, because we
just chased each other around and threw balls at each other. Not to mention, we
had to eat with our hands. My hands were sticky and sweaty and dirty and it got
all over my dinner roll. Plus, girls are always nicer to me than boys. They
don’t make fun of me for being bad at sports. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hear yelling as I approach a fire that shines brightly as
the sun has set quickly. A few
counselors I recognize, like Zach, are pacing back and forth and throwing steak
at each other. They are talking in strange voices, but I might be able to
understand them if the stupid, loud boys would shut up. They don’t seem happy, though. At one point, one of them
yells that the Romans are going to take all of our candy. This seems to get
everybody’s attention, and when Zach yelled really loud, “Are we gonna let ‘em
take our candy?!” everyone yelled back “No!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then everyone started running back to the cabin, so I tried
to keep up, but they always push me aside. When I get back, everyone is changing
into dark clothes. “A sneak-out?” I ask Zach, but he says no. He says we are
going to battle. Immediately, I say I don’t want to. Zach says there is no
getting out of this battle. That either we go to the Romans or they come to us.
I think we could run away, but I know that this won’t work, not with the whole
cabin already changing. I run into the cabin and put on my pair of blue jeans.
It is hot, but if I am going to get hit with something, these may help it hurt
less. And they are dark, so maybe I can hide. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am caught up in a motion towards Counselor Bryan, who is
painting everybody’s face. I think that it looks gross. I argue against it, but
end up with a couple of dots on my cheeks. And then come the swords. All of a
sudden, it seems like everybody has a sword except for me. I quickly grab the
last, shortest one that is kind of crooked. It is heavier than I thought,
though. My first inclination is to chop off the boy’s head who made fun of me
for crying about a scrape on my knee. We will see how he likes his scrape. But
before I can, Zach, who is now holding a really big sword, yells in a booming
voice that “anybody who hits a fellow cabin mate will have his sword taken away
immediately.” Everyone listens… This doesn’t happen that often, so this must be
serious. And strangely, I stand in silence, with the rest of the boys, waiting
for what is next. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We file into ranks. “4x4! Get in lines and rows of four!”
Our entire cabin, with the younger boys from cabin four, is merging into
perfect lines. Large, strong hands move us into place. Loud voices direct us
into silence and order. I have seen movies. I know that the front people are
the bravest, so I go to the very back of the group. Every other boy is 100%
focused on Zach, who is apparently the leader. I still have questions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What if we get hurt? Do the Romans have weapons too? Are
they mean? Will I get hurt?” My voice has a tremble in it yet Zach clearly
hears it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Blake, you will have to rely on your bravery. They do have
weapons, but so do we! You will all have to be brave and strong. Listen to my
orders carefully and we will all be ok!” But I don’t have bravery, I think to
myself…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next moments transcend our boyhood. We are marching. I have no choice but to keep
step. For the first time, I have no desire but to keep step. I am breathing
quickly. The only sound you can hear as we march past the cabin is the crunch
of parched ground under out feet and the allegro tempo of my beating heart
pulsating out of my ear drums. Echoes of “HA-OOH! HA-OOH!” resound off of the
canyon walls. For once, every boy in singing hills responds to one voice, one
call. Every boy is in step, in sync. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Left, left, left, right, left!... HA-OOH! HA-OOH!” Zach rips the still air with his primal call
that begs for response. The call is answered faithfully, like the swarm of a hundred
locusts drowning the dry hill country: “HA-OOH! HA-OOH!” In unison, jabs of
swords pierce the night sky with a sharpness that made me think that our weapons
were more than PVC covered with foam. In these moments, I was swept up into a
mob-like determination. No one cared about why we were going to battle anymore.
We just were. I’m not a camper anymore. I’m a soldier. And this is real.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One by one, the lights illuminating the path clicked off,
concealing the continuous roar of Jacks and Piggys under a cloak of darkness.
The darkness is scary, but confidence returned in the cry for steady march
toward the river. Descending the steps, terror grasped a hold of my lungs at
the first battle shriek of the enemy. It held tight for as long as I could
remember. Lurking somewhere down there, in the sparse glint of moonlight off
the trickling river below the dam, they lied in wait. I was bringing up the
rear, and at this point, Zach was right beside me. Saving the best for last, he
told me. There was a glint in his eye that made him appear truthful. But he was
merely being kind, of course. He probably didn’t even know it was me standing
beside him. I was last because everyone, including myself, knew that the bad
guys would be done with by the time I got there. When I first got in line, that
is exactly how I wanted it. That is how I had always wanted it. To stay out of
harm’s way. To let others protect me. But now-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-There was no time to think. No time to run. No time to
question. Out of darkness, a praetorian wielding a 5-foot warhammer sprung up
for the depths of river. Like a wrecking ball hitting a piñata, soldiers in
front me were dispatched into the grave of the river with ease. They would
struggle to climb back onto the rock path way, but the clasp of the sticky mud
and the threat of the swinging warhammer held them down. One by one, two by
two, and three by three, they fell. Zach charged but even he could only deflect
the mighty warhammer of the praetorian. Then, my eyes locked with his. His eyes
struck my innermost being. “What are you made of, Blake? Run, Blake. Or fall.”
I was done running.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
--</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It’s hard for me to explain what happened next. I don’t know
why he did it but he did. There was a fire in his eyes I had never seen before
and have never seen since. But with a screech that only one boy could make in
this entire camp, Blake charged from behind me like his life depended on it.
Maybe it did. He swung his oblong sword in no particular direction and for
whatever reason, and I guarantee there was a reason, the warhammer did not
strike him. Blake, with all of his might, struck down the praetorian. And then
didn’t stop beating that praetorian until I wrestled him away 5 strikes later. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
--</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone started chanting my name. “Blake! Blake! Blake!” I
had done it. And everybody else couldn’t. I was last. Like always. I was the
best. For once.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
--</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The rest of the battle is less important for Blake. We
managed to get to the next checkpoint, and, of course, we defeated Caesar. He
was taken down after the last of his guards were lying in the wet-with-water
and water-balloon-plastic ground. Blake threw a couple more water balloons.
This time, he was in the front. He didn’t stop talking about the warhammer praetorian
until he left camp about a week later. Over the course of the previous week,
Blake had been really homesick and wanted to go home early. So, naturally, his
mom picked him up last in our cabin. As I gave him one last hug, he conceded
that it was alright he had been picked up late. As he was about to run towards
his loving mother, said in a giddy voice: “Best for last.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-2969646176746759062011-09-16T11:51:00.000-07:002011-09-16T11:51:26.166-07:00Post-Summer Ramblings: Romans vs Rebels<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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</div>
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Merely a preview of the Romans vs Rebels post...</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
What stings more than a smack to the back with a foam-covered PVC sword? A candy-tax by the Roman Empire on our campers. Justice had to be done. </div>
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</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR19PQBZBEGjGS3G8VEeoEO7mvQEyHgXNiQ6X00IpsIYyx6QX9KoUMrdw7K3ulJ-HO_BFy3iDHxBaExhIjGb99zPgTA__J6uYTWaKcIEpLqA1FgfVC7nJhdzM_X1JliTXzFSlarCTMq8I/s1600/224413_1626526712941_1529730851_31954467_7908372_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR19PQBZBEGjGS3G8VEeoEO7mvQEyHgXNiQ6X00IpsIYyx6QX9KoUMrdw7K3ulJ-HO_BFy3iDHxBaExhIjGb99zPgTA__J6uYTWaKcIEpLqA1FgfVC7nJhdzM_X1JliTXzFSlarCTMq8I/s400/224413_1626526712941_1529730851_31954467_7908372_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first platoon of rebel warriors (8-12 year-old campers) assaulting the Roman fort.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL7NVcvnkqtPcLKRf27TiJy9siDqBv_sp80hfp1b9XZ3nb3YaTRoKsK2_iH3IIus-o5lLZU3kGBnjzxEqVB4psnDuW48K2hvfEhAmbGBJdx88wOXqF6E7GqcXeLhhxGNNn9nJmIGrx_5A/s400/184004_1626527072950_1529730851_31954471_432544_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Atop the conquered Roman fort, as Captain of the rebels. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-41338851239992421202011-09-06T22:56:00.001-07:002012-01-24T17:37:26.958-08:00Post-Summer Ramblings: 2300 Lb-Force<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The scene is Lake Powell, Reflection Canyon to be more
specific. Our 60 ft houseboat is anchored up against a red-rock beach with some
sand. How it works is that you pull the boat up against the shore with four
anchors stretching out from the bow and stern: two lines on either side, two
lines on both the bow and the stern each. The lines are attached to anchors
which are buried in the sandy shore or, in our case, wrapped around and pivoted
against large boulders. Over the course of our two weeks of previous experience
from summers past on Powell, we have found our preferred method is to rely on
the shear inertial force of a boulder instead of the compacted frictional force
of sand. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What we didn’t know is that as an evening front blew in from
across the desert that evening, we would have to rely on far more than just the
boulders to hold us to the shore. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Certainly the distant skyline looked ominous, but the desert
will do that often and the canyon we were parked in, with two hundred-foot
cliffs towering over us, seemed very sheltered. But in came the wind, and the
canyon did nothing but funnel the gale-force gusts. The wind began to pick up,
and two minutes after the first 35-mph, full-frontal gust with sustained 25 mph
winds to follow, it was game time. Either we were going to hold strong to this
shore, or the wind was going to take us like kite and smash us into the rocks
and crush the power boat we had attached to the side of our house boat. To give
you a hint, the men on that boat are pretty competitive: we weren’t going to
lose this high-stakes battle. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Into action we flew. My dad whipped out a wench and Geoff
(my friend) and I ran an extra anchor line from the up-wind side of the bow
onto the shore. The engines were started and we rammed ourselves up against the
shore with all hundreds of horsepower worth of two prop engines. With the boat
firmly up against the shore, anchors were heaved in to their tightest point and
tied off securely. Finally, an extra line on the center bow of the boat was
added with a small wench to keep the boat as far on the shore as possible. We
were ready. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could describe the calm before the storm and how the
clouds seemed to grow darker as the wind got heavier. I could describe the 45
mph gusts that slammed the side of the boat. There was creaking of anchors,
shifting of sand, scrambling, high-pitched screaming, and satisfaction after we
sustained an engineer-estimated 2300 Lbs of force on the side of my boat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could try to, in
vain, to describe the awesome experience of braving a storm that shook not only
the boat but the inside of my soul. But there is something incredibly humbling
and yet empowering to hold strong through the storm. To ride out the wind. To
withstand the current. It is just freaking cool. I can only pray that I withstand
the power that is the ever-changing currents of the unsteady world. When the
earth tilts so often and gravity brings everything down with it, how are we
supposed to stand our ground? Certainly not on our own: but on the strength of
our anchors we have planted. It may be hard. Your hands might be burned from
pulling rope tight. But it will be worth it when the sun breaks through the
clouds. </div>
Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-50738190823727537442011-08-28T03:09:00.000-07:002011-08-28T03:10:13.001-07:00A Prelude: Post-Summer Ramblings<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">It ended rather abruptly, the summer did. It felt like just three blinks of an eye ago, I was saying my goodbyes at camp, which had just followed a week of kids and craziness, which had followed a grand trip to Lake Powell with my family, which came right off the heels of a couple free weeks after school had ended. The plan after camp was to relax for the next few weeks and have a good time with my girlfriend, who was coming to visit, but I ended up working at Steelhead, a water bottle production line manufacturing company. That swept up the next two weeks, and then, before I knew it, I was watching my one and only high school football game for the year, featuring my little sister on the dance team. Now, I am sitting in the San Antonio International Airport at 4:30 AM waiting to jump an early plane back to school. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I thought about the summer and all the adventures and places I have been: physically, mentally, and spiritually. I thought I might share those experiences or ramblings, rather, explaining my summer and some big events listed above and what they do to a person who tries to be intentional about taking in what is around him. Also, keep in mind, I was trying to walk a fine line almost the entire time, so that heightened sense of cautiousness, I think, allowed me to understand better where I am as a person and where the world around me is. So without too much more delay… Post-Summer Ramblings are coming in hot. </div>Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-33496408075011722522011-07-08T01:55:00.000-07:002011-07-08T01:56:38.285-07:00Borderline Cramped: Family Road Trip<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBCywZQrUgFKyDX-grzyTyrG0AQ9FvpuZ2atB9_PkriTyKmXxkbVV7xEZtRHNX2eP15rfxd58qknObobN2bEQGZ2PviU3-zhGHFxQYq-GqlBzszYpSZJPpnlknI5VMoZnrHkiFEqChwVE/s1600/IMG_2719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBCywZQrUgFKyDX-grzyTyrG0AQ9FvpuZ2atB9_PkriTyKmXxkbVV7xEZtRHNX2eP15rfxd58qknObobN2bEQGZ2PviU3-zhGHFxQYq-GqlBzszYpSZJPpnlknI5VMoZnrHkiFEqChwVE/s400/IMG_2719.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ahh the summer: blistering heat waves, no school, and family road trips. Higher gas prices, a slumping economy, and the aging car almost cut the good ol’ family vacation to a halt before it even began this year, but my dad was determined. He has been planning this trip for months. He has been saving money, calculating, with the help of Google, the fastest routes, and drooling over new water toys for our second trip to Lake Powell. It was his dream destination that became a reality in 2008, and we just didn’t get enough. When he got one of those email advertisements that you would normally ‘spam’ immediately, he didn’t. Instead he ventured onward and never looked back, emerging with a week-long boat trip for 50% off. </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"> So here we are. In the middle of New Mexico with my family and very good friend: Mom, Dad, Kara (17), Risa (15), Geoff (20), and myself (20). We have a 2003 Black Chevy Suburban with 140,000 miles on it loaded up and towing two jet skis from back in San Antonio. It’s a little tight, with the shortest person being Risa at 5’ 6” and our combined height of 36’ 1” (an average of ~6’). Our end destination, which we will arrive at today: Paige, Arizona. From San Antonio to Paige it’s exactly 1,189.9 miles; I know this because we have a can with that number on it near our family room that is labeled ‘Lake Powell Gas Money.’ Anyone can drop a dollar or twenty in there if they want to help out the cause. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And a cause it is. Driving through west Texas and New Mexico is quite the adventure. There is whole lotta nothing until you reach the Red Rocks near the Continental Divide in New Mexico. The land is bare, harsh, and unforgiving. Evidence of the desolation lies not in skulls on the side of the road but the lack of road kill. In the Hill Country of Texas, there is an occasional raccoon or deer that has been hit on the side of the road: proof of former life. In west Texas, there is nothing. While this may seem morbid or mundane, depending on your queasiness, the desert and countryside are literally awesome. They have the lightning, rolling thunder, and flash storms that can get lost in the city. I love the idea that America is made up of blustering cities and blistering heat and desolation. Traffic jams and 1000s of miles of empty two lane highways. Walmarts in front of a picturesque mountain sunset from the viewpoint of a Denny’s front porch. Gotta love America. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And that is the great thing about family road trips. In no other country are you expected to load a SUV and drive to a ridiculously remote destination, and then to think that the journey was part of the destination. In America that is a cliché but where else do you have 3,000 miles (in one direction) to drive on well-paved interstate highway? No other country that spans an entire continent has even one continuous cross-country intestate, and we have five: interstates that can take you through the seemingly-endless urban sprawl Los Angeles and 2,000 miles later the bayous of Louisiana. Did I say cramped? I meant wide open. I hope I didn’t say boring. This is God’s creation at its most rugged. And I love it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I could write so much more, but that would be too much of me talking, and typing in the car is starting to give me a headache. So I want to hear from you (or not). What is you most memorable view from a family road trip? Did that change your view on America or wherever you were? </div>Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-34262683324514620212011-06-22T16:17:00.000-07:002011-06-22T19:29:19.162-07:00Borderline Cool: Summertime<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1DX5AHCe58NqPXjZL53_X3PIVRjvzTpcgtCQxIBdZV8UGWs-8sBInyXj4sgsNi3x7MUIcW8bm6ALxLnIobiZRxLSNMKQDLfRsCPq-zj_ytvyRfmViLCgHMiWfhDL9JqxIDw1FXxod5U/s1600/DSC01612.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1DX5AHCe58NqPXjZL53_X3PIVRjvzTpcgtCQxIBdZV8UGWs-8sBInyXj4sgsNi3x7MUIcW8bm6ALxLnIobiZRxLSNMKQDLfRsCPq-zj_ytvyRfmViLCgHMiWfhDL9JqxIDw1FXxod5U/s400/DSC01612.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Texas sunset on a relatively cool evening. Good to be home. </div>Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-42533894179480476522011-06-21T12:07:00.000-07:002012-01-24T17:37:26.961-08:00Borderline Creepy: The University Union<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">For my first real post, we will take an oddly long trip into my chaotic mind. It was none other than average day of the University Union at Cal Poly, where I attend school. And, sometimes, average becomes readable.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">* * * * * </span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The University Union </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I originally saw her from across the University Union, the inside part. It’s where I go when I want to nap, study, or read in between classes. It’s kind of an escape. In the UU, you get to see a diverse population of Cal Poly. You get to see those out of your mundane and daily routine. There is defiantly something special about the UU, or really any populated public location, really, that makes me feel a part of something bigger. But this story is not about something bigger. It’s about something really personal, something that your share with only those closest to you. But, like that time in the UU that day, I am feeling brave, and so, today, you can all be those people closest to me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">To give you an idea of where exactly I am, I will try to describe what is roughly going on here. The time was approximately 3:30 pm on a Thursday afternoon. Since it is January, the sun is starting to move toward the ocean, just a mile or so as the crow flies from our California campus. The UU faces the southwest, and the windows are really large, so the glare is starting to set in. Unfortunately, this was not exactly an idealistic glare, like in “Touched by an Angel” or a romantic comedy. This was a glare that made you squint to see those coming in from the outside. It’s that kind of glare that allows those cocky people to justify wearing sunglasses inside. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Around the UU, there were all types of people. Groups form in sections of overstuffed chairs that are facing each other, allowing for power naps or mellow conversation. I was in a maroon, overstuffed chair, myself. The tables are packed with study groups, ranging from engineering to psychology to business to biology. As I am looking around, I realized that in the UU, there are no boundary lines. Just as America claims to be “the Great Melting Pot,” we mesh together seamlessly. Seniors and freshmen, alike, can gather in the UU. It is a place where the playing field is leveled. Where there are no courses or complicated labs. There are no houses with fraternity letters on them, and everyone has something in common. All you have to do is find that common ground to spark a conversation. But that takes guts. </span><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Like I said, I first saw her when I was reading a book that my younger sister had recommended to me. It was a memoir, but an interesting one at that, titled “The Glass Castle.” I peered up from my book to reflect on what I had just read and to survey the landscape, if you want to call it that. It was that quick glance that caught her eye. I'm not even sure if she registered the glance, but I certainly did.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> You know how sometimes, you just get that feeling. It’s not that feeling “in the pit of your stomach” or that feeling “you get when you’re in free fall,” but something more like a big slap on the back that makes you sit up straighter and take a quick breath. My first gasp was quick, and as far as I know, went unnoticed. I felt a little adrenaline pump as I planned a smooth double-take. I softly placed the book on my lap and put a very philosophical look on my face. At this point my brows were furled and vision slightly obscured, but I stole a quick glance. Her head was down, buried in some thick book that I could not see the cover to. I wondered what she was reading. “Is that a book that I have read?” If I had known, it might have been my big break, but I couldn’t make it out. I looked back down, pretending to read for a couple minutes. I was really trying to think of some excuse to move her direction. But when I looked up, she was gone. The time on the clock was 3:57.</span><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">At about 4:30, I look and see that it is time to head off to my class that starts in ten minutes. I can’t focus on physics, though. All I’m thinking about is who she is. She is light-skinned, has long, dark, wavy hair, with dark-green eyes. She is thin, looked like slightly taller than an average height, but that is hard to tell. She was reading… And I realized that I don’t even know her major. I felt like I was living the song “Breakfast at Tiffinay’s,” except I didn’t even get the chance to talk to her. I thought that there must have been another opportunity to meet her, and I wasn’t going to give up that easy.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">…</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The next Tuesday, I sat down in the UU at around 3:25. Tuesday and Thursday schedules are usually similar, if not the same, so I had a small chance of hope. My positioning was different that time. I sat in her row, only two seats down from her last spot. I dug into my book, only getting a chance to “read,” or at least stare at it, during my breaks on Tuesday and Thursday. When I looked up at 3:32, she was sitting next to me. I almost jumped, as I had totally missed it. How had she been so quiet that I didn’t even notice she was there? I had been so entrenched in my book that I didn’t even look up. I could’ve said something to her. Something dumb, probably, like “oh, let me move my stuff.” I might have said something funny, and if she laughed, I would be in. Not only do I love the way a girl looks when she laughs, but I heard that if a girl laughs at something that isn’t funny, she likes you. I could’ve introduced myself, and we would have hit it off for sure! I blew my only chance, and I had been defeated. I dug back into my book, blanketed with the “im totally obvious and creepy if I say something now” aura. I didn’t even have a chance to look at her without turning her blatant direction. </span><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then, she dropped her pen. It bounced an off her leg and came to rest by my foot. I saw her move to pick it up, but I used the advantage of my long arms to beat her to it. I looked up and we made our first real eye contact. The funny thing was that it lasted a couple of split seconds longer than it should have. I don’t doubt that I could stare at her for more than just a couple of seconds, given the chance, but that usually doesn’t get reciprocated. We both snapped out of the quick, speechless glance as I handed her the pen. She whispered a timid “thanks.” I shook my head and smiled, but failed to get out more than a mumble of a “you’re welcome.” I was already looking her direction, so I glanced down at her book. It was the Bible. She was taking notes in one of my favorite books, Romans. At that point, I had my connection. The principle of the UU was about to be proven once more. If only I could get up the guts. But I told you that I was feeling brave today. In a split-second decision, I went for it. I felt like I was risking it all, but that was the best part. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“What chapter are you reading?” She looked at me with a sheepish grin that was oddly attractive. “Chapter 12,” she responded. This was getting even better. I had quite a bit of that chapter memorized, and I couldn’t waste the opportunity. My confidence was growing, and I was getting warmer.</span><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But just as I was about to ask her favorite part, one of my friends walked up and yelled my name. I turned around to see he was closing in on my location. I gave him a glance and smiled, trying to think of a way out. But it was too late. He sat down in the chair to my left. I was now committed to my left, not my right, where the girl read quietly. He started talking about his day, and how beautiful the day was. He was describing the feeling he got when he stepped outside that morning. But every time he mentioned the sun, I thought her eyes. Mentions of the wispy clouds,and I thought her voice. The glare in his eyes was her beauty in mine, the torturous shine that makes everything black and white for a few instances. While exhaling from pure relief by the warmth of the sun, I was humbled by her smile. There was something that made my emotions distorted but my intentions so clear. She made things plain. She made things exciting. She was my engine and drive, but when I took a glance back around, to see her walking away, she sunk my ship and all of its men to the ocean floor. It was 3:57.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But I knew there was still hope. I conjured up a new crew, a new spirit. The repairs of the damages the girl who left just as fast as she came were complete. And I hadn’t screwed up with her; I had just been temporarily detoured. That Thursday I would see her and get another shot. I could make it happen, I convinced myself.</span><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well, she didn’t come that Thursday. But the Tuesday would be successful, for sure. I went straight to our seats and glanced up frequently to make sure I didn’t miss a thing. She didn’t show up Tuesday. Not the next Thursday either. As it turns out, I never saw her again. It was over, and there was nothing I could do about it. I didn’t even know her name. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</span></div>Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026665671836056942.post-85489288631591687362011-06-21T10:49:00.000-07:002011-06-21T12:20:31.594-07:00An Intoduction<div style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So I have been contemplating starting a blog for a while now. There is something about the chance to express your thoughts about whatever niche of the world you live in that is pretty cool. I was hesitant, of course, at the thought that I might construe myself as a hipster, an intelligent writer, or someone with something extraordinary to say. But I suppose that is the beauty of blogs. The idea that everyone has something to say, that every life is unique yet shares commonalities, and that people are curious enough to know that they are not alone in a world that can be scary. That is pretty cool.</div><div style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But here I am, already getting sappy. On with the show.</div><div style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Within the blogging world, of course, you can find religious posts, travel updates, political tirades, and daily too-long-to-fit-in-140-characters-or-less Twitter-like updates. Hopefully my blog will be one of those that is the appropriate combination of the above. There are those blogs that strike a chord, and while I doubt my writing, thinking, or lifestyle is all that impressive or interesting, I think people could use a bit of an average point of view to read up on.</div><div style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">My writing schedule is nonexistent. My writing style is all-too conversational. And my grammar is poor. I hope that through all of this you can keep up in what will be some strange commentary on the fine line I try to walk.</div>Zachary Pylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01138744436987501323noreply@blogger.com0