Dear Friends,
I just returned from a three-day trip to Las Vegas over Thanksgiving, where I climbed with a friend named Timo. The standard itinerary for such a trip--gamble, eat, gamble, sleep, repeat--was swapped for one that took place almost entirely outside of Las Vegas proper, and instead centered on Red Rocks, a large valley surrounded by a mountain range with some of the best rock climbing that the west has to offer. It was pretty amazing. I didn't take all that many pictures (I forgot my camera on the first day), but the ones I did take can be browsed here. This trip was exceptional in that I did a lot of things I'd never done before, learning them because if I didn't I would die. Literally.
On the first day, I was sport climbing a route for the first time--sport climbing is when bolts are drilled into the rock face so that you can attach the rope to it with a quickdraw--when I realized that, despite being twenty feet above the last bolt, there were obviously no more bolts. If I dropped, I would fall forty feet and probably kill myself; my only choice was to finish the last forty-ish feet of the route. The reason I was sport climbing in the first place, by the way, was because the route was too difficult for Timo, my partner, who has significantly more experience outdoors. I happened to have a piece of trad gear (short for "traditional" gear) attached to my harness, and so I stuck it in a crack, and, hey!, it stuck. So I clipped myself into that and braced myself for the last stretch (which contained no cracks, and hence no opportunities to place gear, even if I had more).
Obviously, I didn't die. But I will say this: I have a good head for heights, but making a move when you know a mistake will drop you sixty or seventy feet is a good deal harder than making a move in a rock climbing gym with an eight foot fall and thick mats. Anyways, that was day one. Day two was even more exciting.
I should have known things wouldn't go as planned when Timo and I completely botched the approach. Fifty minutes into the hike, we realized that our trail was taking us away from the Cat in the Hat, the route we wanted to do. The Cat in the Hat is a four-pitch climb, which means that it has four routes stacked on top of each other. One person leads a pitch, the other follows up, cleaning up the gear placed by the first, and then the next pitch is led, and so on. When the top is reached, each pitch is rappelled down. All in all, the Cat in the Hat is between four and five hundred feet of climbing.
We finally decided to hike across the rugged terrain to the start of the route, which essentially meant climbing up the huge boulders leading up to the face of the cliff. It was a lot less fun than it sounds with 150 pounds of gear between us. We finally reached the base, though, and ate a banana in celebration. It was in the low sixties and we were in the shadow of the mountain, so it was cold; still, we could see the sun hitting the mountain higher up, and we figured we would be warm once we got up high enough. Timo led the first pitch without incident, and I followed. The second went more or less smoothly, and the third as well. The only irksome detail was that the sun moved up the mountain faster than we climbed. Timo is a slow, methodical climber, and a long pitch took us well over an hour.
Three pitches and four hours into the climb, the troubles began--which was interesting, considering that we were feeling pretty good, having finally found the sun. It was a little after 2pm, and we had just run into another group of climbers that had started before us. I was to trad-lead the final pitch, the hardest of the four, so I had some fun getting together a full harness of gear, webbing, and carabiners. We waited a good hour for that group to make it up, which was frustrating because daylight only lasted until 5pm. In any case, I began the lead with a short traverse to the right, then headed up a crack. After just three or four pieces of protection, I felt the rope start to drag because of the way it was being pulled through the protection. At first it was hardly a problem--I've climbed with weights on my wrists and legs--but after eighty feet and eight pieces of gear, the rope started to feel really heavy. With every step, the rope got heavier, the gear-placing opportunities grew fewer, and the climb became more difficult. And I still had sixty feet to go.
Thirty feet from the top, I had to pause. The last opportunity to place was fifteen feet below, and there was nothing else in sight all the way to the top. The rope drag was around thirty pounds, and it felt like a hundred. The rock was slippery sandstone with sloped holds and sketchy feet. Suddenly, I had a pair of realizations almost simultaneously: firstly, that I couldn't do it. I couldn't make the moves I needed to with this kind of drag, knowing that, if I fell, paralysis would be an optimistic outcome. And secondly, that I didn't have any choice. There are still things I want to do in my life. The first realization was the least appealing, so I shoved it aside and latched on to the second. I breathed a prayer and began moving upward, willing my hand and feet not to slip off their holds.
I'm writing this e-mail, so obviously I made it to the top. I clipped into the anchor and belayed Timo up, all the while feeling grateful to be alive. By the time he made it up and we prepared to rappel down, the last dregs of sunlight were slipping behind the mountain. And I was freezing.
To our surprise and delight, we realized that our rope wasn't long enough to rappel down to the next anchor. Instead, we hooked up an intermediate anchor and rappelled down from there. I don't want to bore you with more details, but suffice it to say that the process of setting an anchor and rappelling two people down to the next takes about half an hour. By the time we hit the top of the third pitch, it was pretty near dark. We set up the next rappel as quickly as we could; this time, our rope was short by about twenty feet, but it was a reasonable down-climb. A few hundred feet up, sure, but not difficult. We had settled on down-climbing and were pulling our rope down when... our rope snagged. And for the life of us, we just could not get it un-stuck. So Timo and I were stuck on the side of the mountain completely unprotected, and with no rope. It was in the low fifties by this time, and my fingers were going numb. We shook and pulled the rope almost an hour before a pair of climbers saw our snag and unhooked it. Grateful, we down-climbed to the anchor and set up the next rappel. This time it was hardly a surprise when our rope turned out to be too short. Exhausting, cold to the bone, and generally frustrated, we joined the group above us and, using two ropes tied together, made it down to the bottom in another hour or so.
The grueling hike back, which took just under an hour, was also quite pleasant.
Timo and I packed our gear into the back, sat in our seats, and and started driving away. And suddenly I realized that I had a new reason to love rock climbing. I had an opportunity to face the nagging voice of "you can't do it," and came out on top. I was exhausted, miserable (did I mention that I had a head cold?), and sore, but almost deliriously happy. The kind of happy you only get when you feel you've earned it.
And that was my Thanksgiving. How was yours?
------------------------
See pictures of my apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My new phone number is 813-313-6573.
Peace,
Dan
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Thursday, November 1, 2007
FUN Update, November 1 - Rear Derailleurs: Revisited
Dear Friends,
Ever kept a journal? Ever been writing and accidentally skipped a page? Well... oops. Accidentally skipped a month. But now I'm back for the lovely month of November to remind you that I'm alive. All sorts of fun things are happening, not least of which is my birthday next Tuesday. Big 21--time flies.
I had a cool experience yesterday. I just bought a new bike because my Mongoose had no brakes, a broken front wheel, and a flat back wheel. The new bike is quite a bit nicer than the older one, but it was in bad repair. The rear tire was flat, the seat post and handlebars were rusted into the lowest position so that only a midget could ride comfortably, and the rear dérailleur--there it is again!--was bent out of shape so much that it would catch in the wheel spokes in first or second gear. But it was the only bike that looked like it was in decent shape, so I bought it and took it to the bicycle repair shop to see what could be done.
"Sorry," said some college-age punk who worked there, "looks like the post is seized in there; you'd need to buy a new post, buy this and that, and do somersaults in lava." Or something like that. Basically, he told me it was cost a couple hundred to repair it, and that I should take the bike back. A thirty-something guy standing behind the counter occasionally threw in quips about pawn shops, which wasn't really helping. I knew I didn't have the money to buy another bike, and pawn shop bikes are sold as-is, so I told them to replace the tube on the back tire. Here, the thirty-something guy jumped in.
"Looks like the seat post is...backwards." And sure enough, it was. So he took off the seat and we tried to twist the post. No luck. Then he pulled out the biggest wrench I've ever seen in my life. It was over two feet long and must have weight almost ten pounds. He put as much leverage as he could behind the wrench and pushed on the handle with two people to keep the bike in place. The post moved about a millimeter. College-age punk guy, thirty-something guy, and I worked for about ten minutes on this post until finally we could tap on it with a hammer to get it out. It looked like it had been rusting since the eighteen hundreds. They put some grease on it, stuck it back on (the right way, this time), and reattached the seat. One problem down, ten to go.
The handlebars were easier, but only some what so. Before long it was good as new. They went in to replace the tube in the back tire and meanwhile poked and prodded at the rear dérailleur. They tightened this, loosed that, and used all sorts of weird tools to get the body back in shape. Within fifteen minutes the bike was shifting like a charm. Both tires use a bizarre inflation mechanism, so I asked them to bring the front tire to the right pressure, too. It took them all of twenty seconds.
My bike was fully functional. I was thrilled. But I was also broke, and rent was about to be due, and I was really dreading that bill. He rang up everything and handed me a bill for... $11.76. $5.49 for the tube, $5.50 for labor, plus tax. I asked thirty-something guy if I could tip them, and he smiled and said no. Happy to be of service and all that. There are few things more touching than the kindness of strangers. I even thought well of college-age punk guy, as I walked out.
The End.
Also: a German engineer who went with me on my climbing trip asked if I would come with him to Red Rock, Nevada on another trip over Thanksgiving weekend. He travels a lot for work, so he said he could cover airfare and hotels, which means all I would have to pay for is half the rental car cost. He also owns all the gear we'd need, so we wouldn't have to rent. So. That's an awesome opportunity that I have coming up soon.
For the moment, my life is going pretty well. Money is really tight right now, but when isn't it? So. That's my life as it stands. Hopefully my next update won't take another month to write. God bless you all.
------------------------
See pictures of my new apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My new phone number is 813-313-6573.
Peace,
Dan
Ever kept a journal? Ever been writing and accidentally skipped a page? Well... oops. Accidentally skipped a month. But now I'm back for the lovely month of November to remind you that I'm alive. All sorts of fun things are happening, not least of which is my birthday next Tuesday. Big 21--time flies.
I had a cool experience yesterday. I just bought a new bike because my Mongoose had no brakes, a broken front wheel, and a flat back wheel. The new bike is quite a bit nicer than the older one, but it was in bad repair. The rear tire was flat, the seat post and handlebars were rusted into the lowest position so that only a midget could ride comfortably, and the rear dérailleur--there it is again!--was bent out of shape so much that it would catch in the wheel spokes in first or second gear. But it was the only bike that looked like it was in decent shape, so I bought it and took it to the bicycle repair shop to see what could be done.
"Sorry," said some college-age punk who worked there, "looks like the post is seized in there; you'd need to buy a new post, buy this and that, and do somersaults in lava." Or something like that. Basically, he told me it was cost a couple hundred to repair it, and that I should take the bike back. A thirty-something guy standing behind the counter occasionally threw in quips about pawn shops, which wasn't really helping. I knew I didn't have the money to buy another bike, and pawn shop bikes are sold as-is, so I told them to replace the tube on the back tire. Here, the thirty-something guy jumped in.
"Looks like the seat post is...backwards." And sure enough, it was. So he took off the seat and we tried to twist the post. No luck. Then he pulled out the biggest wrench I've ever seen in my life. It was over two feet long and must have weight almost ten pounds. He put as much leverage as he could behind the wrench and pushed on the handle with two people to keep the bike in place. The post moved about a millimeter. College-age punk guy, thirty-something guy, and I worked for about ten minutes on this post until finally we could tap on it with a hammer to get it out. It looked like it had been rusting since the eighteen hundreds. They put some grease on it, stuck it back on (the right way, this time), and reattached the seat. One problem down, ten to go.
The handlebars were easier, but only some what so. Before long it was good as new. They went in to replace the tube in the back tire and meanwhile poked and prodded at the rear dérailleur. They tightened this, loosed that, and used all sorts of weird tools to get the body back in shape. Within fifteen minutes the bike was shifting like a charm. Both tires use a bizarre inflation mechanism, so I asked them to bring the front tire to the right pressure, too. It took them all of twenty seconds.
My bike was fully functional. I was thrilled. But I was also broke, and rent was about to be due, and I was really dreading that bill. He rang up everything and handed me a bill for... $11.76. $5.49 for the tube, $5.50 for labor, plus tax. I asked thirty-something guy if I could tip them, and he smiled and said no. Happy to be of service and all that. There are few things more touching than the kindness of strangers. I even thought well of college-age punk guy, as I walked out.
The End.
Also: a German engineer who went with me on my climbing trip asked if I would come with him to Red Rock, Nevada on another trip over Thanksgiving weekend. He travels a lot for work, so he said he could cover airfare and hotels, which means all I would have to pay for is half the rental car cost. He also owns all the gear we'd need, so we wouldn't have to rent. So. That's an awesome opportunity that I have coming up soon.
For the moment, my life is going pretty well. Money is really tight right now, but when isn't it? So. That's my life as it stands. Hopefully my next update won't take another month to write. God bless you all.
------------------------
See pictures of my new apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My new phone number is 813-313-6573.
Peace,
Dan
Friday, September 28, 2007
FUN Update, September 28, 2007 - Brevity
Dear Friends,
One or two of you may have noticed that I dropped off the face of the earth for a while. I've been a little antisocial over the last few weeks because of some unresolved conflict that I had with a friend. But it is resolved now--for the better, I hope--and so here I am to report on my life.
It continually amazes me how little can happen in a month. I'm basically in precisely the same place that I was a month ago, except that...
I spent a few minutes trying to think of something different, and couldn't. That's my life right now, predictable as an atomic clock. I work and go rock climbing. For the moment, I am willing to accept that no news is good news and hang tight. After a few months, though, I might go stir crazy and pray for some cataclysm to spice up my life. For the moment, the only thing I have is a climbing trip that I'll be going on in a couple weeks. I'm going up to Chattanooga, TN to do some top-roping and bouldering. It's not cheap, but I really need a change of pace, if only for a few days.
Incidentally, my tentative plan is to fly to Michigan for Christmas for about a week. If I were to guess at the dates, I'd say December 20th to 27th.
That's it. Hope you're all well. If your life has been interesting recently, jot me a note and fill me in. God bless,
Dan
One or two of you may have noticed that I dropped off the face of the earth for a while. I've been a little antisocial over the last few weeks because of some unresolved conflict that I had with a friend. But it is resolved now--for the better, I hope--and so here I am to report on my life.
It continually amazes me how little can happen in a month. I'm basically in precisely the same place that I was a month ago, except that...
I spent a few minutes trying to think of something different, and couldn't. That's my life right now, predictable as an atomic clock. I work and go rock climbing. For the moment, I am willing to accept that no news is good news and hang tight. After a few months, though, I might go stir crazy and pray for some cataclysm to spice up my life. For the moment, the only thing I have is a climbing trip that I'll be going on in a couple weeks. I'm going up to Chattanooga, TN to do some top-roping and bouldering. It's not cheap, but I really need a change of pace, if only for a few days.
Incidentally, my tentative plan is to fly to Michigan for Christmas for about a week. If I were to guess at the dates, I'd say December 20th to 27th.
That's it. Hope you're all well. If your life has been interesting recently, jot me a note and fill me in. God bless,
Dan
Friday, August 24, 2007
FUN Update, August 24, 2007 - Of Socks and Derailleurs
Step 1: Figure out the name of whatever piece of metal fell off my bike.
It was... complicated. It had springs and hinges and wheels. It looked really... important. I had this funny feeling that a Google search for "complicated springs hinges wheels important" wouldn't be terribly helpful, so instead I went to Google images to look at bike diagrams until I finally found out the name.
Step 2: Figure out what a "rear derailleur" does.
Easy as Wikipedia. I skimmed the article (understanding about 10%) and verified that the picture looked something like what I had. Score. Apparently, it... actually, I'm still not quite sure what it does. Except that it keeps tension on the chain. So... that's important, I guess.
Step 3: Find out how it attaches to the rest of the bike.
Bikes have holes all over them, so after work the next day I stopped by the pawn shop a block away to look at some bicycles. What do you know, they all had those thingamajigs too! It seemed to fit between the thing that held the gears on and the other screwy thing with the... thing. Thankfully, it was a visual errand, so the fact that my vocabulary is grossly ineffective when it comes to bicycle repair wasn't too much of an inconvenience.
Step 4: Try to attach it without getting bicycle grease all over.
I don't have socks anymore. I lost most of them in various places, so now I have a few black pairs for work and a single white sock. The single white sock wasn't much use, so I decided to use it as a glove. It is now a black sock too, though not one I would wear in public. I worked on reattaching it for about half an hour until I finally gave up because I couldn't get the chain to move anymore even though I thought it was on correctly. Irritated, I pulled hard. The back wheel moved. It suddenly occurred to me that the bike might be properly in gear.
Step 5: Test the bike.
Sure, the logical thing to do would have been to lift up the back tire and push a pedal. I was inside, after all. Instead, I picked up the whole bike and carried it outside wearing nothing but my pajama pants. Then I hopped on and rode it around for a minute or two. Strangely, the gear shifting is actually more responsive now than it was before. One of the brakes is slightly misaligned, but that won't be difficult to adjust. As long as I never have to touch another rear derailleur.
P.S. My neighbor must have thought I was drunk when I wobbled around half-naked on my bicycle and then stumbled back into my apartment. Oh well. Doesn't hurt to keep things interesting.
----------------------------
Dear Friends,
I fixed my bike. I'd tell the story, but it's long and boring and I wouldn't want to waste your time. It was exciting, though, because I don't have money to get it fixed and I know nothing about bikes, so instead I just prayed that God would help me fix it and got to work. And now my bike works again.
I still have a job. The cuts happened as scheduled, and I'm still there. That's a relief. I celebrated by getting all my blue microfiber shirts dry cleaned. I imagine that dry cleaning could be addictive much like self-medicating. I mean, you know the clothes don't really need to be dry cleaned again, but there's a little wrinkle in the back and they're so nice and pretty when they get back... and after all, it's supposed to be good, right? Cleaning is good. Maybe I'll dry clean my entire closet...
The financial news is looking optimistic for the first time in a while. It looks like I'll be able to afford rent come September 1st. I plan on spending September getting rid of some debt I've accumulated. It shouldn't take long. After that... well, maybe a car is in my future. Who can say?
And that's the news for now. Hope everyone is well.
-------------------------------------
See pictures of my new apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
Peace,
Dan
It was... complicated. It had springs and hinges and wheels. It looked really... important. I had this funny feeling that a Google search for "complicated springs hinges wheels important" wouldn't be terribly helpful, so instead I went to Google images to look at bike diagrams until I finally found out the name.
Step 2: Figure out what a "rear derailleur" does.
Easy as Wikipedia. I skimmed the article (understanding about 10%) and verified that the picture looked something like what I had. Score. Apparently, it... actually, I'm still not quite sure what it does. Except that it keeps tension on the chain. So... that's important, I guess.
Step 3: Find out how it attaches to the rest of the bike.
Bikes have holes all over them, so after work the next day I stopped by the pawn shop a block away to look at some bicycles. What do you know, they all had those thingamajigs too! It seemed to fit between the thing that held the gears on and the other screwy thing with the... thing. Thankfully, it was a visual errand, so the fact that my vocabulary is grossly ineffective when it comes to bicycle repair wasn't too much of an inconvenience.
Step 4: Try to attach it without getting bicycle grease all over.
I don't have socks anymore. I lost most of them in various places, so now I have a few black pairs for work and a single white sock. The single white sock wasn't much use, so I decided to use it as a glove. It is now a black sock too, though not one I would wear in public. I worked on reattaching it for about half an hour until I finally gave up because I couldn't get the chain to move anymore even though I thought it was on correctly. Irritated, I pulled hard. The back wheel moved. It suddenly occurred to me that the bike might be properly in gear.
Step 5: Test the bike.
Sure, the logical thing to do would have been to lift up the back tire and push a pedal. I was inside, after all. Instead, I picked up the whole bike and carried it outside wearing nothing but my pajama pants. Then I hopped on and rode it around for a minute or two. Strangely, the gear shifting is actually more responsive now than it was before. One of the brakes is slightly misaligned, but that won't be difficult to adjust. As long as I never have to touch another rear derailleur.
P.S. My neighbor must have thought I was drunk when I wobbled around half-naked on my bicycle and then stumbled back into my apartment. Oh well. Doesn't hurt to keep things interesting.
----------------------------
Dear Friends,
I fixed my bike. I'd tell the story, but it's long and boring and I wouldn't want to waste your time. It was exciting, though, because I don't have money to get it fixed and I know nothing about bikes, so instead I just prayed that God would help me fix it and got to work. And now my bike works again.
I still have a job. The cuts happened as scheduled, and I'm still there. That's a relief. I celebrated by getting all my blue microfiber shirts dry cleaned. I imagine that dry cleaning could be addictive much like self-medicating. I mean, you know the clothes don't really need to be dry cleaned again, but there's a little wrinkle in the back and they're so nice and pretty when they get back... and after all, it's supposed to be good, right? Cleaning is good. Maybe I'll dry clean my entire closet...
The financial news is looking optimistic for the first time in a while. It looks like I'll be able to afford rent come September 1st. I plan on spending September getting rid of some debt I've accumulated. It shouldn't take long. After that... well, maybe a car is in my future. Who can say?
And that's the news for now. Hope everyone is well.
-------------------------------------
See pictures of my new apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
Peace,
Dan
Sunday, August 12, 2007
FUN Update, August 12, 2007 - My Life Gets Interesting Again
Dear Friends,
Finally, something has happened to me that merits the telling! So here I am.
The Greyhound Track where I work has stopped live racing because it is "hemorrhaging money." They'll keep satellite betting (betting on off-site dog and horse races), but the upshot is that the whole facility is drastically downsizing. That goes for the overstaffed poker room, of course. A week from Monday, 25 out of 55 dealers will be dropped based on performance over the next week. If I don't make it, I'll be jobless. The bright side is that if I make it, I'll get more shifts and hence make more money.
My urge is to focus single-mindedly on being the best poker dealer that I can be, ignoring everything until the decision has been made. I realize, however, that doing things in my own strength really isn't the way to go--especially having the connections that I do. So I'm going to pray, and I'm going to do everything in Godly excellence as I have always done. When Jesus was about to be crucified under Pilate, Pilate said to Jesus, "Do you not know that I have authority to release you, and I have authority to crucify you?" Jesus' reply was, "You would have no authority over me, unless it had been given you from above." In the same way, I trust that my authorities are subject to God's will.
I guess it's about time to mention my awful timing and how God's strength is evident in my weakness.
I lost my dealing license and badge over the last week. I have no idea where it went. I searched my apartment in a panic, but there aren't that many places that it could be. I'm pretty sure it's gone for good. I went to work expecting to be sent home and, furthermore, not to be able to work for the weekend (it's illegal to deal without a license). And then... God came through for me. I went to the break room at about 11:30AM after calling around to find out where the State Rep was--that's the person who can print me a new license. They were at Derby Lane, another greyhound track in St. Petersburg, which is about 35 minutes away. Unfortunately, buses don't cross towns, so I'd have to take a taxi. Which would mean about $100 for the round trip. At this point, I was thinking maybe I could just borrow somebody's car and offer to fill up their gas tank, but I hate asking favors like that.
Jodi--the manager--just happened to be in the break room while I was explaining the situation to the other dealers. This was unusual in itself, since the supervisors and managers usually don't hang out in the staff break room. Anyways, he heard the story, and told me to wait around while he went upstairs. I agreed, because... well, because I'd agree to anything legal to keep my job. He then proceeded to offer to drive me to Derby Lane himself so I could get my license.
Just to clarify: the second-in-charge of our poker room drove over an hour so I could get a license and deal the second half of the day. That's like getting Gabriel to do your laundry. I was floored. As an added bonus: I remember a book I read about social engineering that said most people don't want to ask or accept favors because they don't want to "use up" whatever theoretical store of favors they have with that person. But statistically, a person is more likely to grant a favor if they've granted that same person a favor in the past. I think it's because granting a favor means investing something of yourself in a person, which means increasing that person's value to you, which in turn makes you more likely to protect that investment. It's a cycle that can be either good or bad; in this particular case, it may benefit me.
So I lost my license. I can hardly explain how bad that is. It's reallybad. And instead of totally screwing me over, it might have just played in my favor. "If God is for me, who can be against me?" In conclusion, pray that I have the strength to model Christ-like behavior despite the stress of the coming week. I hope you're all doing wonderfully. Don't forget to keep me updated! Take care,
-------------------------------------
See pictures of my new apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
Peace,
Dan
Finally, something has happened to me that merits the telling! So here I am.
The Greyhound Track where I work has stopped live racing because it is "hemorrhaging money." They'll keep satellite betting (betting on off-site dog and horse races), but the upshot is that the whole facility is drastically downsizing. That goes for the overstaffed poker room, of course. A week from Monday, 25 out of 55 dealers will be dropped based on performance over the next week. If I don't make it, I'll be jobless. The bright side is that if I make it, I'll get more shifts and hence make more money.
My urge is to focus single-mindedly on being the best poker dealer that I can be, ignoring everything until the decision has been made. I realize, however, that doing things in my own strength really isn't the way to go--especially having the connections that I do. So I'm going to pray, and I'm going to do everything in Godly excellence as I have always done. When Jesus was about to be crucified under Pilate, Pilate said to Jesus, "Do you not know that I have authority to release you, and I have authority to crucify you?" Jesus' reply was, "You would have no authority over me, unless it had been given you from above." In the same way, I trust that my authorities are subject to God's will.
I guess it's about time to mention my awful timing and how God's strength is evident in my weakness.
I lost my dealing license and badge over the last week. I have no idea where it went. I searched my apartment in a panic, but there aren't that many places that it could be. I'm pretty sure it's gone for good. I went to work expecting to be sent home and, furthermore, not to be able to work for the weekend (it's illegal to deal without a license). And then... God came through for me. I went to the break room at about 11:30AM after calling around to find out where the State Rep was--that's the person who can print me a new license. They were at Derby Lane, another greyhound track in St. Petersburg, which is about 35 minutes away. Unfortunately, buses don't cross towns, so I'd have to take a taxi. Which would mean about $100 for the round trip. At this point, I was thinking maybe I could just borrow somebody's car and offer to fill up their gas tank, but I hate asking favors like that.
Jodi--the manager--just happened to be in the break room while I was explaining the situation to the other dealers. This was unusual in itself, since the supervisors and managers usually don't hang out in the staff break room. Anyways, he heard the story, and told me to wait around while he went upstairs. I agreed, because... well, because I'd agree to anything legal to keep my job. He then proceeded to offer to drive me to Derby Lane himself so I could get my license.
Just to clarify: the second-in-charge of our poker room drove over an hour so I could get a license and deal the second half of the day. That's like getting Gabriel to do your laundry. I was floored. As an added bonus: I remember a book I read about social engineering that said most people don't want to ask or accept favors because they don't want to "use up" whatever theoretical store of favors they have with that person. But statistically, a person is more likely to grant a favor if they've granted that same person a favor in the past. I think it's because granting a favor means investing something of yourself in a person, which means increasing that person's value to you, which in turn makes you more likely to protect that investment. It's a cycle that can be either good or bad; in this particular case, it may benefit me.
So I lost my license. I can hardly explain how bad that is. It's reallybad. And instead of totally screwing me over, it might have just played in my favor. "If God is for me, who can be against me?" In conclusion, pray that I have the strength to model Christ-like behavior despite the stress of the coming week. I hope you're all doing wonderfully. Don't forget to keep me updated! Take care,
-------------------------------------
See pictures of my new apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
Peace,
Dan
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
FUN Update, July 24, 2007 - I Just Have a Lot of Feelings
Dear Friends,
Ever since my trip to Haiti, ants have taken on a special meaning for me. They represent how lots of small problems can combine to create what seems to be an impenetrable miasma of suckiness that permeates my entire life and robs me of all perspective. And so it was that two days ago, after a trying day that involved torrential rainfall, a stolen bike, and a five mile walk/swim, it was discouraging to come home and find that ants were congregating in my entryway.
When I say "congregating," I'm not referring to the characteristic assembly line inevitably leading to a forgotten apple core or candy wrapper. I mean there was about a thousand ants in one small corner of my foyer. I felt somewhat broken at the moment, so I heaped my soaking clothes into the washer and took a hot bath just in case pneumonia was eying my damp lungs. The ants were forgotten until the next morning.
For whatever reason, I harbored a timid hope that I would wake up and the ants would be gone. Laugh at me if you want, but just as water appears in the desert for the desperately thirsty, in my dreams those pesky ants had evaporated, replaced with wadded up hundred dollar bills. Or something.
I haven't dealt with many problems of the type that disappear when you ignore them, and sure enough, the ants were still there when I woke up. If anything, there were more of them, and they seemed to be laying eggs. Just swell. I was running late for work, so I threw on my work clothes and ran out to catch the bus, pausing only to spray the ants with some 409 all-purpose cleaner, the equivalent of spitting in the general direction of my firing squad.
Work... was miserable. Usually I love working as a poker dealer, but yesterday I hardly made enough money to cover my bus fare. I breathed in and out deeply, discovered that I had missed the bus by about three minutes, breathed in and out again, and waited forty-five minutes for the next bus.
I got home, opened my door, and learned something: 409 works on ants. All thousand or so of them were just where I had left them... but dead. And for some reason, yesterday suddenly became a good day. Which made me realize something rather profound.
Much of the background guilt in my life is the result of how I feel. I tip taxi drivers well even when they're late, knowing that it wasn't their fault. But I feel like going on a tirade, insulting their cars and jobs and relatives. I respond politely when the Florida Secretary of State calls and lets me know that I have a couple hundred dollars in fees to pay for moving here. But often, I feel anything but polite.
I feel guilty because I don't feel sure that God will provide. I feel guilty because I worry about jobs and money and people despite God's immaculate track record. I feel guilty because when bad things happen I feel let down by God, as if I am subject to the cruel whims of a divine dictator.
So I'm thankful that my faith and my love aren't judged by my feelings. The bible says that "even a child is known by his actions." I am judged by my decisions--what I choose to do, and whether or not I choose to indulge my guilt, anger, and malice. I feel capable of making good decisions.
I mean, if a bunch of dead ants can instantaneously take me from despair to happiness, where in the substance in emotion? Emotion is just the veneer of circumstance, giving color to perception. And that's nothing to feel guilty about.
More to the point: all is well here. My parents visited for a few days last week, which was nice. I found a computer here that I can rent until I buy one. I'll leave you with something I read online that made me chuckle:
"Bunnies actually have very few mystical powers and tend to rely on things like pancakes, underwear and cheese sticks to solve most of their problems."
-------------------------------------
See pictures of my new apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
Peace,
Dan
Ever since my trip to Haiti, ants have taken on a special meaning for me. They represent how lots of small problems can combine to create what seems to be an impenetrable miasma of suckiness that permeates my entire life and robs me of all perspective. And so it was that two days ago, after a trying day that involved torrential rainfall, a stolen bike, and a five mile walk/swim, it was discouraging to come home and find that ants were congregating in my entryway.
When I say "congregating," I'm not referring to the characteristic assembly line inevitably leading to a forgotten apple core or candy wrapper. I mean there was about a thousand ants in one small corner of my foyer. I felt somewhat broken at the moment, so I heaped my soaking clothes into the washer and took a hot bath just in case pneumonia was eying my damp lungs. The ants were forgotten until the next morning.
For whatever reason, I harbored a timid hope that I would wake up and the ants would be gone. Laugh at me if you want, but just as water appears in the desert for the desperately thirsty, in my dreams those pesky ants had evaporated, replaced with wadded up hundred dollar bills. Or something.
I haven't dealt with many problems of the type that disappear when you ignore them, and sure enough, the ants were still there when I woke up. If anything, there were more of them, and they seemed to be laying eggs. Just swell. I was running late for work, so I threw on my work clothes and ran out to catch the bus, pausing only to spray the ants with some 409 all-purpose cleaner, the equivalent of spitting in the general direction of my firing squad.
Work... was miserable. Usually I love working as a poker dealer, but yesterday I hardly made enough money to cover my bus fare. I breathed in and out deeply, discovered that I had missed the bus by about three minutes, breathed in and out again, and waited forty-five minutes for the next bus.
I got home, opened my door, and learned something: 409 works on ants. All thousand or so of them were just where I had left them... but dead. And for some reason, yesterday suddenly became a good day. Which made me realize something rather profound.
Much of the background guilt in my life is the result of how I feel. I tip taxi drivers well even when they're late, knowing that it wasn't their fault. But I feel like going on a tirade, insulting their cars and jobs and relatives. I respond politely when the Florida Secretary of State calls and lets me know that I have a couple hundred dollars in fees to pay for moving here. But often, I feel anything but polite.
I feel guilty because I don't feel sure that God will provide. I feel guilty because I worry about jobs and money and people despite God's immaculate track record. I feel guilty because when bad things happen I feel let down by God, as if I am subject to the cruel whims of a divine dictator.
So I'm thankful that my faith and my love aren't judged by my feelings. The bible says that "even a child is known by his actions." I am judged by my decisions--what I choose to do, and whether or not I choose to indulge my guilt, anger, and malice. I feel capable of making good decisions.
I mean, if a bunch of dead ants can instantaneously take me from despair to happiness, where in the substance in emotion? Emotion is just the veneer of circumstance, giving color to perception. And that's nothing to feel guilty about.
More to the point: all is well here. My parents visited for a few days last week, which was nice. I found a computer here that I can rent until I buy one. I'll leave you with something I read online that made me chuckle:
"Bunnies actually have very few mystical powers and tend to rely on things like pancakes, underwear and cheese sticks to solve most of their problems."
-------------------------------------
See pictures of my new apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
Peace,
Dan
Thursday, July 12, 2007
FUN Update, July 12, 2007 - How are you?
Dear Friends,
This is the third update I've written this month, but the first two never went out. They both ended up too abstract and heady. Actually, that's how I've been feeling the last couple weeks. A combination of stress and cat allergies has suspended me ever so slightly from reality, and I find it difficult to penetrate that glassy separation between perception and interaction. Living with five cats will do that to a man.
Oh. Right. I'm ahead of myself already. The last time I wrote I didn't know... anything. So here's what happened:
I moved in with a friend named Amanda for two weeks. She studies architecture at the University of South Florida, and she and I have a lot to talk about. We're both interested in music, literature, and comedies. It's been fun. However, she has five cats. And I'm alergic to cats. So that part has been less than stellar; for that reason alone, I'm grateful to be moving out. More on that later.
On July 1st, I began work as a poker dealer at the Tampa Greyhound Track. I absolutely love it. Due to an advertising mixup in which our ads were scheduled for two weeks after we opened instead of two weeks before, business has been pretty slow, but I enjoy every minute and I'm very happy that I chose this line of work. The money is also quite good. It's nice to see the light at the end of the tunnel after such an extended period of brokeness.
On Tuesday, I applied for an apartment. The complex has a fitness center and two pools and a hot tub and a raquetball court and all sorts of amenities that I'll probably never use; the apartment has all the normal stuff--washer/dryer, refrigerator, stove, and a HUGE closet. I loved it. A place of my own, for the first time. And so I dropped $150 on an application. I was asked for a veritable FBI file of information: two years of rent history, two years of work history, a current credit report, and a plethora of personal data. It was disheartening, because the deposit was to be based on the analysis of said information, which would state clearly that I hadn't been working for two years straight, I had a total of three months of rental history, and my credit was merely average. I was hoping for the $250 deposit, but I was reasonable certain that I would be stuck with the one-month-rent deposit of $770. Yeah... umm... I don't got that kind of money. So I prayed. And hoped. And prayed some more.
Sorry for the long paragraph. This will lower the words per paragraph average.
I got a call today. Not only had I been approved for the apartment, I was approved for a $0 deposit. No money. None at all. My heart almost stopped with happiness. And if that weren't amazing enough, I was also eligible for one of their promotions: no rent until September 1st. So no rent this month, and no rent for August. Okay, God is cool. God is very cool. There's just nothing else to it.
So tonight it my last night staying with Amanda. Her best friend from Pittsburg is visiting today with her girlfriend. They're both very cool, and they're both the epitome of lesbianism. Tattoos, nose rings, Ani Difranco. We're all having a great time. We're going to go swimming and watch Amelie and sleep. I am cautiously optimistic that my quality of life is about to improve rather dramatically. However I bite my tongue, it still slips out: about time! This whole moving to a new state thing isn't as easy as I thought it would be.
And the sacrifices have been tangible. Many relationships have fallen by the wayside, of course, but there have also been some losses that I hadn't anticipated. I got a call a couple days ago asking me to play piano for a convention of republican senators. I want to. Very, very much. Oh well.
But, speaking of pianos: the main building of my apartment complex has an eight foot grand right in the middle. I'll be sixty seconds away from a piano at all times. It's been a long time since I've had that. I've also started rock climbing again. The wall here has a lot of neat people, and it's a short bus ride away. I'll buy a bike soon, and the world will shrink again.
In short: I am well. How are you?
---------------------------------
See pictures of my new apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
Bondje beni'w,
Dan
This is the third update I've written this month, but the first two never went out. They both ended up too abstract and heady. Actually, that's how I've been feeling the last couple weeks. A combination of stress and cat allergies has suspended me ever so slightly from reality, and I find it difficult to penetrate that glassy separation between perception and interaction. Living with five cats will do that to a man.
Oh. Right. I'm ahead of myself already. The last time I wrote I didn't know... anything. So here's what happened:
I moved in with a friend named Amanda for two weeks. She studies architecture at the University of South Florida, and she and I have a lot to talk about. We're both interested in music, literature, and comedies. It's been fun. However, she has five cats. And I'm alergic to cats. So that part has been less than stellar; for that reason alone, I'm grateful to be moving out. More on that later.
On July 1st, I began work as a poker dealer at the Tampa Greyhound Track. I absolutely love it. Due to an advertising mixup in which our ads were scheduled for two weeks after we opened instead of two weeks before, business has been pretty slow, but I enjoy every minute and I'm very happy that I chose this line of work. The money is also quite good. It's nice to see the light at the end of the tunnel after such an extended period of brokeness.
On Tuesday, I applied for an apartment. The complex has a fitness center and two pools and a hot tub and a raquetball court and all sorts of amenities that I'll probably never use; the apartment has all the normal stuff--washer/dryer, refrigerator, stove, and a HUGE closet. I loved it. A place of my own, for the first time. And so I dropped $150 on an application. I was asked for a veritable FBI file of information: two years of rent history, two years of work history, a current credit report, and a plethora of personal data. It was disheartening, because the deposit was to be based on the analysis of said information, which would state clearly that I hadn't been working for two years straight, I had a total of three months of rental history, and my credit was merely average. I was hoping for the $250 deposit, but I was reasonable certain that I would be stuck with the one-month-rent deposit of $770. Yeah... umm... I don't got that kind of money. So I prayed. And hoped. And prayed some more.
Sorry for the long paragraph. This will lower the words per paragraph average.
I got a call today. Not only had I been approved for the apartment, I was approved for a $0 deposit. No money. None at all. My heart almost stopped with happiness. And if that weren't amazing enough, I was also eligible for one of their promotions: no rent until September 1st. So no rent this month, and no rent for August. Okay, God is cool. God is very cool. There's just nothing else to it.
So tonight it my last night staying with Amanda. Her best friend from Pittsburg is visiting today with her girlfriend. They're both very cool, and they're both the epitome of lesbianism. Tattoos, nose rings, Ani Difranco. We're all having a great time. We're going to go swimming and watch Amelie and sleep. I am cautiously optimistic that my quality of life is about to improve rather dramatically. However I bite my tongue, it still slips out: about time! This whole moving to a new state thing isn't as easy as I thought it would be.
And the sacrifices have been tangible. Many relationships have fallen by the wayside, of course, but there have also been some losses that I hadn't anticipated. I got a call a couple days ago asking me to play piano for a convention of republican senators. I want to. Very, very much. Oh well.
But, speaking of pianos: the main building of my apartment complex has an eight foot grand right in the middle. I'll be sixty seconds away from a piano at all times. It's been a long time since I've had that. I've also started rock climbing again. The wall here has a lot of neat people, and it's a short bus ride away. I'll buy a bike soon, and the world will shrink again.
In short: I am well. How are you?
---------------------------------
See pictures of my new apartment and of work. (Look for the album labeled "Apt #1614" and "Poker Room," respectively.)
View the FUN Archives.You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
4747 W Waters Ave., Apt #1614
Tampa, FL 33614
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
Bondje beni'w,
Dan
Friday, June 29, 2007
FUN Update, June 29, 2007 - Minesweeper
Dear Friends,
"There aren't enough hours in the day." I agree, but I'd like to append: "There aren't enough hours in the day, but there are too many ten-minutes in the day." You know that irritating block of time that's too short for a nap and too long to absorb with a little dawdling? The one between the time you get home and the time your favorite TV show comes on? The one between when you wake up and when your alarm clock will go off? Yeah. There are lots of them.
So I often resort to the packing peanuts of life: windows games. Solitaire is the most common, but minesweeper is a close second. There's plenty to say about solitaire, but for the moment I'm going to dwell on minesweeper. If you haven't played it before, it's a game that begins with a grid of boxes that contain either a bomb or nothing. If you click on a box that contains nothing, it will show a number indicating the number of adjacent bombs. The object of the game is to find all the bombs and mark them.
The first minute or so is pretty easy. If a box has one adjacent bomb and there's only unopened box, it's obviously a bomb. If a box has eight adjacent bombs, then all the surrounding squares are bombs. But sooner or later, all those tricks are exhausted and you get to a point where you have no choice but to guess. And suddenly all your hard work could disappear when you click a bomb and it explodes.
It feels like deja vu. The first nineteen years of my life, despite their complications, were mapped out. Do my homework, make friends, graduate; any bombs that went off were results of my carelessness. Then all the easy decisions were used up, and I had no choice but to guess. Any choice could end up being a bomb. Thankfully, life isn't quite as unforgiving as minesweeper. Making the wrong choice doesn't end the game; but it can mean a lot of hard work wasted and a broken heart to fix.
I learned something from minesweeper. When I first started playing, after reaching that plateau I would sit there and deliberate for minutes at a time. After working on this puzzle for ten minutes, how could I risk it all without proper consideration? But at some point I realized that my consideration never made the decision clearer or easier. The best course of action was to act quickly and decisively. If I chose a bomb, I would start a new game and try again until I succeeded.
Choosing to risk my livelihood to try to become a poke dealer has been anything but a safe bet. At any point the powers that be could have deemed me unworthy, and just that fast I would have been at square one. Even now, a single disaster tonight--our opening night for the VIPs of the poker world--could conceivably leave me broke and jobless. The pressure is great and the stress is high, but I know that all I can do is make decisions quickly and decisively based on all the information I have. If it turns out badly, I'll pick myself up and start again.
And sometimes that decisiveness saves you time and energy. Sometimes it's possible to piece together some of those odd moments and turn those awkward ten-minute doldrums into one more hour in the day. There aren't enough of them, you know.
------------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. I am in the process of moving, so please don't send letters or packages until I have a new address. My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
"There aren't enough hours in the day." I agree, but I'd like to append: "There aren't enough hours in the day, but there are too many ten-minutes in the day." You know that irritating block of time that's too short for a nap and too long to absorb with a little dawdling? The one between the time you get home and the time your favorite TV show comes on? The one between when you wake up and when your alarm clock will go off? Yeah. There are lots of them.
So I often resort to the packing peanuts of life: windows games. Solitaire is the most common, but minesweeper is a close second. There's plenty to say about solitaire, but for the moment I'm going to dwell on minesweeper. If you haven't played it before, it's a game that begins with a grid of boxes that contain either a bomb or nothing. If you click on a box that contains nothing, it will show a number indicating the number of adjacent bombs. The object of the game is to find all the bombs and mark them.
The first minute or so is pretty easy. If a box has one adjacent bomb and there's only unopened box, it's obviously a bomb. If a box has eight adjacent bombs, then all the surrounding squares are bombs. But sooner or later, all those tricks are exhausted and you get to a point where you have no choice but to guess. And suddenly all your hard work could disappear when you click a bomb and it explodes.
It feels like deja vu. The first nineteen years of my life, despite their complications, were mapped out. Do my homework, make friends, graduate; any bombs that went off were results of my carelessness. Then all the easy decisions were used up, and I had no choice but to guess. Any choice could end up being a bomb. Thankfully, life isn't quite as unforgiving as minesweeper. Making the wrong choice doesn't end the game; but it can mean a lot of hard work wasted and a broken heart to fix.
I learned something from minesweeper. When I first started playing, after reaching that plateau I would sit there and deliberate for minutes at a time. After working on this puzzle for ten minutes, how could I risk it all without proper consideration? But at some point I realized that my consideration never made the decision clearer or easier. The best course of action was to act quickly and decisively. If I chose a bomb, I would start a new game and try again until I succeeded.
Choosing to risk my livelihood to try to become a poke dealer has been anything but a safe bet. At any point the powers that be could have deemed me unworthy, and just that fast I would have been at square one. Even now, a single disaster tonight--our opening night for the VIPs of the poker world--could conceivably leave me broke and jobless. The pressure is great and the stress is high, but I know that all I can do is make decisions quickly and decisively based on all the information I have. If it turns out badly, I'll pick myself up and start again.
And sometimes that decisiveness saves you time and energy. Sometimes it's possible to piece together some of those odd moments and turn those awkward ten-minute doldrums into one more hour in the day. There aren't enough of them, you know.
------------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. I am in the process of moving, so please don't send letters or packages until I have a new address. My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
FUN Update, June 20, 2007 -
Dear Friends,
The most interesting thing that has happened to me in the last twenty days was when I hung out with a homeless guy for an hour or so. He was missing a lot of teeth. I went home and brushed mine and stopped just short of singing them a lullaby. Dear Lord, please let me keep my teeth until I'm too old to care.
After auditions, classes continued more or less as usual, albeit with a lot of faces missing. I'm learning a great deal, and (to my never-ending surprise) there is always much more to learn. Becoming a poker dealer is much more involved than I would have guessed. Like any profession that involves thousands of dollars changing hands every couple minutes, there's a lot of pressure to get things right, and to get it right the first time.
Our soft opening, the poker room equivalent of a dress rehearsal, will be on the 29th. All the games will be free of charge, and those invited will be treated to door prizes, free food, and an open bar. Then, two days later, I start work. I've been waiting for July 1st so long that it's like an icon in my mind. After that, the only worry is that, after ninety days, the managers will cut the nine dealers with the lowest performance.
I don't plan on being one of them.
I'm still not sure where I'll be living when I move out on the 30th. God will provide. I often wish He'd print a schedule for my benefit, but where would be the excitement in that? And besides: familiarity breeds contempt. At least this way, I always feel grateful.
I wish I had more to say. My next epistle may not come until after the opening. Until then, may God bless you and keep you.
-------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives.
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
The most interesting thing that has happened to me in the last twenty days was when I hung out with a homeless guy for an hour or so. He was missing a lot of teeth. I went home and brushed mine and stopped just short of singing them a lullaby. Dear Lord, please let me keep my teeth until I'm too old to care.
After auditions, classes continued more or less as usual, albeit with a lot of faces missing. I'm learning a great deal, and (to my never-ending surprise) there is always much more to learn. Becoming a poker dealer is much more involved than I would have guessed. Like any profession that involves thousands of dollars changing hands every couple minutes, there's a lot of pressure to get things right, and to get it right the first time.
Our soft opening, the poker room equivalent of a dress rehearsal, will be on the 29th. All the games will be free of charge, and those invited will be treated to door prizes, free food, and an open bar. Then, two days later, I start work. I've been waiting for July 1st so long that it's like an icon in my mind. After that, the only worry is that, after ninety days, the managers will cut the nine dealers with the lowest performance.
I don't plan on being one of them.
I'm still not sure where I'll be living when I move out on the 30th. God will provide. I often wish He'd print a schedule for my benefit, but where would be the excitement in that? And besides: familiarity breeds contempt. At least this way, I always feel grateful.
I wish I had more to say. My next epistle may not come until after the opening. Until then, may God bless you and keep you.
-------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives.
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
Monday, June 4, 2007
FUN Update, June 5, 2007 - The Milkman in the Sky
Dear Friends,
I wrote a poem entitled "Sunday" that I'd like to share with all of you.
Sunday
Seven o'clock
No car, no cash, no friends
I grab my wallet,
my cell, my sandals.
I walk out the door.
I walk back in.
I grab my keys.
I walk out again.
I lock the door.
On the road at last.
-----------------
Just kidding. I actually just wrote a bunch of short sentences and pretended it was a poem. Anyways, to continue the story, I then walked to Ybor, the Cuban city to the North. Here's a map of my journey. I went to the "Centro Ybor," a fantastic collection of... strip bars. I kid you not: there is a coffee shop, a clothing store, an ice cream shop, and about twelve strip bars, none of which admit patrons under twenty-one. Wait... are my parents on this list? I should probably check...
I stepped into the ice cream and bought a cone. It was wretched. I threw it away and spit on its remains. But you know, that's the wonderful thing about junk food: when you buy it, you either feel great because it tastes good, or because you didn't eat it and you're more healthy for abstaining. It's a win-win situation!
I spotted a hotel and hoped for a piano in the lobby. I checked, but, alas, there was no instruments to be found. By this time I was desperate for some form of entertainment, so I went to the third floor balcony and climbed off the edge, scaling my way down the wall. I had gone about ten feet when I realized that I had amassed a small audience at the entrance of the parking garage. Just for giggles, I pretended to lose my balance and wobbled a bit. There was an audible gasp, and I began laughing so hard that I almost fell for real. When I reached the ground, I turned, bowed, and sprinted off into the night.
The "scene closes" feature on my life is out of repair, so I found that "the night" involved a pair of railroad tracks and the no-man's-land between Ybor and downtown Tampa. I decided that I would walk to the Marriott, which I know has a piano, and I began walking straight to it, which of course involved climbing the occasional fence and/or onramp. It made the journey more interesting.
On the way, there was a toad. This toad was sitting in the road. (This is me, resisting the urge to continue rhyming a la Dr. Seuss.) So: I saw a toad in the road. It was a big toad, probably five or six inches long, and for whatever I reason I took an interest in preserving its life. I walked toward it, but it hopped away. That was logical; of course a toad will hop away from some random human. I jogged around it and stood about six feet in front. It kept hopping. Four feet; two feet; one foot. I swear, if I hadn't moved, it would have run right into me. I could almost here it saying, "out of the way, loser, mind your own business." Suddenly it came to me: this toad wanted to die. It has probably lost its... umm... woman toad... and had come to its wit's end. I saw a car coming my way and moved on. In life, meetings do not always end in resolution.
*Soft piano music; credits roll*
I played at the Marriott for a half hour or so. I walked over to Channelside and checked out all the movies that I had already decided not to see. I walked to the long line of taxi cabs where a group of cab drivers almost hang out and chat about... well, whatever it is that taxi cab drivers talk about. Homeward bound. I walked until I got bored, then ran until I got tired, and generally continued whatever I was doing until boredom or tiredness forced me to alternate action. It was a painful parody of vicious cycles, bouncing between negative extremes to maintain a tolerable equilibrium. I got home, watched the first half of "Superman Returns," and went to bed.
Boring story, I know. I told it because I'd like to offer a snapshot of my life right now. I got hired last Friday. I'm going to be a dealer; I was so relieved I didn't even have room to be excited. And now I have another few weeks of waiting. A few hours of class every day, a few hours of sleep every night, and more time in between than I could possibly fill. This is not a problem I'm accustomed to having. This is not a problem I ever anticipate having again.
I want to take a snapshot because my life is about to change. A told me today about a house that's a steal for $1700 per month. It will be available in August. And I considered it, because by August I could handle it. By August, I'll have hobbies again. I'll have a car, and a life. I'll have less time to pray, though. Less time to read. Less time to think. I'll be too tired to sing at the top of my lungs when Leslie works late; too tired to dance and nervously check the windows to make sure nobody's watching. I don't know if my life is changing too quickly or not quickly enough.
But enough of that: for now, I am determined to survive (monetarily speaking) until I start working on July 1st. That is the problem I currently face, and it is sufficient for today. Maybe it's irreverent, but sometimes I think of God like an old-school milkman, bringing that day's quart of milk. God offers grace in day-sized quantities. Sometimes I wish He gave advances, but who am I to question a system that works?
-------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
I wrote a poem entitled "Sunday" that I'd like to share with all of you.
Sunday
Seven o'clock
No car, no cash, no friends
I grab my wallet,
my cell, my sandals.
I walk out the door.
I walk back in.
I grab my keys.
I walk out again.
I lock the door.
On the road at last.
-----------------
Just kidding. I actually just wrote a bunch of short sentences and pretended it was a poem. Anyways, to continue the story, I then walked to Ybor, the Cuban city to the North. Here's a map of my journey. I went to the "Centro Ybor," a fantastic collection of... strip bars. I kid you not: there is a coffee shop, a clothing store, an ice cream shop, and about twelve strip bars, none of which admit patrons under twenty-one. Wait... are my parents on this list? I should probably check...
I stepped into the ice cream and bought a cone. It was wretched. I threw it away and spit on its remains. But you know, that's the wonderful thing about junk food: when you buy it, you either feel great because it tastes good, or because you didn't eat it and you're more healthy for abstaining. It's a win-win situation!
I spotted a hotel and hoped for a piano in the lobby. I checked, but, alas, there was no instruments to be found. By this time I was desperate for some form of entertainment, so I went to the third floor balcony and climbed off the edge, scaling my way down the wall. I had gone about ten feet when I realized that I had amassed a small audience at the entrance of the parking garage. Just for giggles, I pretended to lose my balance and wobbled a bit. There was an audible gasp, and I began laughing so hard that I almost fell for real. When I reached the ground, I turned, bowed, and sprinted off into the night.
The "scene closes" feature on my life is out of repair, so I found that "the night" involved a pair of railroad tracks and the no-man's-land between Ybor and downtown Tampa. I decided that I would walk to the Marriott, which I know has a piano, and I began walking straight to it, which of course involved climbing the occasional fence and/or onramp. It made the journey more interesting.
On the way, there was a toad. This toad was sitting in the road. (This is me, resisting the urge to continue rhyming a la Dr. Seuss.) So: I saw a toad in the road. It was a big toad, probably five or six inches long, and for whatever I reason I took an interest in preserving its life. I walked toward it, but it hopped away. That was logical; of course a toad will hop away from some random human. I jogged around it and stood about six feet in front. It kept hopping. Four feet; two feet; one foot. I swear, if I hadn't moved, it would have run right into me. I could almost here it saying, "out of the way, loser, mind your own business." Suddenly it came to me: this toad wanted to die. It has probably lost its... umm... woman toad... and had come to its wit's end. I saw a car coming my way and moved on. In life, meetings do not always end in resolution.
*Soft piano music; credits roll*
I played at the Marriott for a half hour or so. I walked over to Channelside and checked out all the movies that I had already decided not to see. I walked to the long line of taxi cabs where a group of cab drivers almost hang out and chat about... well, whatever it is that taxi cab drivers talk about. Homeward bound. I walked until I got bored, then ran until I got tired, and generally continued whatever I was doing until boredom or tiredness forced me to alternate action. It was a painful parody of vicious cycles, bouncing between negative extremes to maintain a tolerable equilibrium. I got home, watched the first half of "Superman Returns," and went to bed.
Boring story, I know. I told it because I'd like to offer a snapshot of my life right now. I got hired last Friday. I'm going to be a dealer; I was so relieved I didn't even have room to be excited. And now I have another few weeks of waiting. A few hours of class every day, a few hours of sleep every night, and more time in between than I could possibly fill. This is not a problem I'm accustomed to having. This is not a problem I ever anticipate having again.
I want to take a snapshot because my life is about to change. A told me today about a house that's a steal for $1700 per month. It will be available in August. And I considered it, because by August I could handle it. By August, I'll have hobbies again. I'll have a car, and a life. I'll have less time to pray, though. Less time to read. Less time to think. I'll be too tired to sing at the top of my lungs when Leslie works late; too tired to dance and nervously check the windows to make sure nobody's watching. I don't know if my life is changing too quickly or not quickly enough.
But enough of that: for now, I am determined to survive (monetarily speaking) until I start working on July 1st. That is the problem I currently face, and it is sufficient for today. Maybe it's irreverent, but sometimes I think of God like an old-school milkman, bringing that day's quart of milk. God offers grace in day-sized quantities. Sometimes I wish He gave advances, but who am I to question a system that works?
-------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
FUN Update, May 30, 2007 - Communication
Dear Friends,
If you walk out my front door and trip over a tree root, you basically fall on top of the Mexican convenience store. But even though it's right at the end of my street, I walk past it another quarter mile to the one that says "open" in English and doesn't have tortilla shells in the display window. I planned on checking it out at some point, but procrastinated for the same reason that I sometimes wait for weeks before correcting the blinking twelves on new coffee makers.
That's not the only thing I procrastinate about. About three weeks after moving in here, my Landlord, Chris, casually mentioned something about utilities staying in his name, which I thought was strange because utilities are included in rent. The next day I realized that we had obviously crossed wires, and that we would need to reach some agreement on the issue. But I put it off and he never mentioned it again, so I assumed--read: convinced myself--that I had been wrong.
I received an e-mail from Chris a couple days ago detailing the utility bills I owed on. I sent an e-mail back and said utilities were included, but that I would be willing to begin paying them in exchange for a free month of rent. As much as I understood his position, I also didn't want to get knocked around without speaking up. He responded by saying that there was no compromise, which I resented since, having assembled all of our communication, there was no mention of utilities. After a few e-mails, he said he would be stopping by and we could talk.
He stopped by. We talked. He refused to accept my compromise, and I refused to calmly accept an extra hundred bucks per month that I didn't agree to. Unable to find a point of equilibrium, I found a move-out date (which is either the 23rd or the 30th). So it looks like I'll be moving again--this time, hopefully closer to work.
Two days ago I walked into the Mexican store. It had all the normal convenience store-type stuff, plus lots of beans, tortillas, and unidentifiable fruits. I didn't buy anything, but I'd certainly go back. If I had gone back when I first noticed it, weeks ago, it would have been just fine. And you know, if I had approached Chris weeks ago when he first mentioned the issue, that probably would have been just fine, too. Communication can do that.
Normally I'd end on that note, but since this is a newsletter I wanted to throw in another piece of news. My final audition for poker dealing was yesterday. It was difficult, but it was fun and I had a good time. I find out Friday whether I'm going to be a dealer. Until then, I suppose I just sit tight and pray. So you see, not all that much has changed since I left Haiti.
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
If you walk out my front door and trip over a tree root, you basically fall on top of the Mexican convenience store. But even though it's right at the end of my street, I walk past it another quarter mile to the one that says "open" in English and doesn't have tortilla shells in the display window. I planned on checking it out at some point, but procrastinated for the same reason that I sometimes wait for weeks before correcting the blinking twelves on new coffee makers.
That's not the only thing I procrastinate about. About three weeks after moving in here, my Landlord, Chris, casually mentioned something about utilities staying in his name, which I thought was strange because utilities are included in rent. The next day I realized that we had obviously crossed wires, and that we would need to reach some agreement on the issue. But I put it off and he never mentioned it again, so I assumed--read: convinced myself--that I had been wrong.
I received an e-mail from Chris a couple days ago detailing the utility bills I owed on. I sent an e-mail back and said utilities were included, but that I would be willing to begin paying them in exchange for a free month of rent. As much as I understood his position, I also didn't want to get knocked around without speaking up. He responded by saying that there was no compromise, which I resented since, having assembled all of our communication, there was no mention of utilities. After a few e-mails, he said he would be stopping by and we could talk.
He stopped by. We talked. He refused to accept my compromise, and I refused to calmly accept an extra hundred bucks per month that I didn't agree to. Unable to find a point of equilibrium, I found a move-out date (which is either the 23rd or the 30th). So it looks like I'll be moving again--this time, hopefully closer to work.
Two days ago I walked into the Mexican store. It had all the normal convenience store-type stuff, plus lots of beans, tortillas, and unidentifiable fruits. I didn't buy anything, but I'd certainly go back. If I had gone back when I first noticed it, weeks ago, it would have been just fine. And you know, if I had approached Chris weeks ago when he first mentioned the issue, that probably would have been just fine, too. Communication can do that.
Normally I'd end on that note, but since this is a newsletter I wanted to throw in another piece of news. My final audition for poker dealing was yesterday. It was difficult, but it was fun and I had a good time. I find out Friday whether I'm going to be a dealer. Until then, I suppose I just sit tight and pray. So you see, not all that much has changed since I left Haiti.
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
Sunday, May 20, 2007
FUN Update, May 20, 2007 - My Way
Dear Friends,
This weekend I did some work for a company called Simphonics. My job was to build twelve identical desktop computers for a project, all of which contained their proprietary card, the SMX Whizbang 2000, or whatever. The man who was showing me how they wanted the systems assembled obviously knew far less about computers than I did. He did everything slowly and didn't really understand why he did the things he did. He kept giving me "pointers," some of which were misguided and all of which were superfluous.
On top of which, he had no sense of humor. Imagine trying to ease your stress level by telling a joke, only to be met by a blank face which was colored, if at all, only with vague irritation. In two days of working with him--eighteen and half hours, in total--I never saw him laugh once. There's something very peculiar about that.
About six hours into the first day, after he had nitpicked about a million times, I had a revelation. If I was so good at system building and he was so bad, then why did he keep finding things to criticize? There was obviously something that he wanted from me, and proving my superiority was getting in the way of proving my competence. I switched gears right away.
I started routing wires the way he wanted them. I assembled in the order that he wanted it to be assembled. I made a "V" shape with three cable hooks. I refrained from telling jokes and instead let him talk. About... something. I don't remember. But I did what he asked.
And here's the interesting thing: I learned a lot. Doing things a different way taught me some new tricks. Most curious of all, when I finished a system and he commended me, I felt really good about my work.
I have an artist's snobbery. I want to do things my way, and I generally feel that my way is better than most other ways. And yet, every time that I explore another path, it ends up being far more rewarding than if I had insisted on having my own way. Now, I think I've come one step closer to being a better worker for anyone I ever work for. Which, I think, is worth a few hours of irritation.
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
This weekend I did some work for a company called Simphonics. My job was to build twelve identical desktop computers for a project, all of which contained their proprietary card, the SMX Whizbang 2000, or whatever. The man who was showing me how they wanted the systems assembled obviously knew far less about computers than I did. He did everything slowly and didn't really understand why he did the things he did. He kept giving me "pointers," some of which were misguided and all of which were superfluous.
On top of which, he had no sense of humor. Imagine trying to ease your stress level by telling a joke, only to be met by a blank face which was colored, if at all, only with vague irritation. In two days of working with him--eighteen and half hours, in total--I never saw him laugh once. There's something very peculiar about that.
About six hours into the first day, after he had nitpicked about a million times, I had a revelation. If I was so good at system building and he was so bad, then why did he keep finding things to criticize? There was obviously something that he wanted from me, and proving my superiority was getting in the way of proving my competence. I switched gears right away.
I started routing wires the way he wanted them. I assembled in the order that he wanted it to be assembled. I made a "V" shape with three cable hooks. I refrained from telling jokes and instead let him talk. About... something. I don't remember. But I did what he asked.
And here's the interesting thing: I learned a lot. Doing things a different way taught me some new tricks. Most curious of all, when I finished a system and he commended me, I felt really good about my work.
I have an artist's snobbery. I want to do things my way, and I generally feel that my way is better than most other ways. And yet, every time that I explore another path, it ends up being far more rewarding than if I had insisted on having my own way. Now, I think I've come one step closer to being a better worker for anyone I ever work for. Which, I think, is worth a few hours of irritation.
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
Sunday, May 6, 2007
FUN Update, May 7, 2007 - Broken
Dear Friends,
I've come to understand that being broken is how I should anticipate spending most of my life. Sure, there are times that I feel whole and together, but it rarely lasts more than a few weeks. And I've come to appreciate the comfort that comes from being dependent on God and the people He's put in my life.
My roommate broke up with her fiancé about two months ago. Her wedding date was yesterday, May 5th. She's reading a book right now (going on week five, I believe) entitled, "it's called a breakup because it's broken." And it is. She is. She sleeps too much and suffers from a lack of motivation, and I have yet to see her happy.
I got to thinking: what's different about us? I don't know that I can compare my life to somebody who breaks up with their fiancé... but my recent life hasn't been a walk in the park, either. The idea that the only difference is the magnitude of our troubles just doesn't ring true for me. As usual, my course of action was to search for an appropriate metaphor; to seek a visual that I could describe, and then see if that description applied to my life.
There are different types of broken. There are paper cuts and greenstick fractures and little plastic things that break off and render machines completely unusable. Some breaks are big, like losing a best friend or fiancé. Others are small, like facing another day with the dark clouds of worry hovering over your head. Sometimes the crack goes straight through; other times, the crack causes more breaks so that the pieces don't quite fit together anymore.
...And suddenly, I had my image. Crackers. Those two-cracker saltine packets in the little plastic bags that you always get with soup. The crackers you break in the package so you can pour them neatly into that chicken noodle without getting salt and bread crumbs on your hands. That cracker, of course, is me, and Leslie, and everybody else that is human enough to have a breaking point. The wrapper represents the relationships and connections that act as support.
Consider the extremes of wrapper size: if a cracker is in a gallon-sized zip-lock bag and it gets broken, it will crumble beyond repair. But if that same cracker is shrink wrapped, even when broken all the pieces will still fit together. It will fracture, but will not separate. At this point I have to switch metaphors. If you have a broken bone, what does a doctor do? The doctor sets it. Puts all the pieces together--broken, but together. Because if you put all those pieces together, they heal. They heal. They heal. Mantra of the broken heart.
Leslie was in a relationship that was scentral to her life almost to the exclusion of family and friends. So when the cookie crumbled, all the pieces scattered, and she was left with nobody to help her put them together. I, on the other hand, have God. And my family, and my friends. I've been constantly impressed by Leslie's strength in the face of her own unhappiness. She puts on a smile and goes to work and capitalizes on her competence. But humans heal as they rest, and how can there be rest without safety, and how there be safety without support?
More soon. Big things are afoot!
Dan
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
I've come to understand that being broken is how I should anticipate spending most of my life. Sure, there are times that I feel whole and together, but it rarely lasts more than a few weeks. And I've come to appreciate the comfort that comes from being dependent on God and the people He's put in my life.
My roommate broke up with her fiancé about two months ago. Her wedding date was yesterday, May 5th. She's reading a book right now (going on week five, I believe) entitled, "it's called a breakup because it's broken." And it is. She is. She sleeps too much and suffers from a lack of motivation, and I have yet to see her happy.
I got to thinking: what's different about us? I don't know that I can compare my life to somebody who breaks up with their fiancé... but my recent life hasn't been a walk in the park, either. The idea that the only difference is the magnitude of our troubles just doesn't ring true for me. As usual, my course of action was to search for an appropriate metaphor; to seek a visual that I could describe, and then see if that description applied to my life.
There are different types of broken. There are paper cuts and greenstick fractures and little plastic things that break off and render machines completely unusable. Some breaks are big, like losing a best friend or fiancé. Others are small, like facing another day with the dark clouds of worry hovering over your head. Sometimes the crack goes straight through; other times, the crack causes more breaks so that the pieces don't quite fit together anymore.
...And suddenly, I had my image. Crackers. Those two-cracker saltine packets in the little plastic bags that you always get with soup. The crackers you break in the package so you can pour them neatly into that chicken noodle without getting salt and bread crumbs on your hands. That cracker, of course, is me, and Leslie, and everybody else that is human enough to have a breaking point. The wrapper represents the relationships and connections that act as support.
Consider the extremes of wrapper size: if a cracker is in a gallon-sized zip-lock bag and it gets broken, it will crumble beyond repair. But if that same cracker is shrink wrapped, even when broken all the pieces will still fit together. It will fracture, but will not separate. At this point I have to switch metaphors. If you have a broken bone, what does a doctor do? The doctor sets it. Puts all the pieces together--broken, but together. Because if you put all those pieces together, they heal. They heal. They heal. Mantra of the broken heart.
Leslie was in a relationship that was scentral to her life almost to the exclusion of family and friends. So when the cookie crumbled, all the pieces scattered, and she was left with nobody to help her put them together. I, on the other hand, have God. And my family, and my friends. I've been constantly impressed by Leslie's strength in the face of her own unhappiness. She puts on a smile and goes to work and capitalizes on her competence. But humans heal as they rest, and how can there be rest without safety, and how there be safety without support?
More soon. Big things are afoot!
Dan
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives .
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
Saturday, April 28, 2007
FUN Update, April 28, 2007 - More than Myself
Dear Friends,
Some things just stick with me. Words and phrases strike with such force that they compress the stuff of my mind around them. Others are simply received, as if I was born with a crater just the size and shape of that idea. Usually it is serious. I remember being very young and very furious with my mother. She had done something to offend me, and she was apologizing. In self-righteous fury, I turned to her and said, "sometimes sorry just isn't good enough." She replied, "sorry will always be good enough for me." Other times, it is funny or even silly. I saw a commercial today for a TV show and heard the line: "You are hereby sentenced to live in New York City for seven days... as a bush." I cracked up. Much more than the line was worth.
Those words aren't always driven in by their own merit. Music is notorious for the inertia it can give; emotionally-charged situations can do the same thing. In other words, you can never be entirely sure what foreign object will lodge in your brain on any given day. It makes me think of something else that deals with precisely the same predicament.
Imagine being planet Earth. Earth, which, assaulted daily by thousands of space objects, incinerates or deflects nearly all intruders with an atmosphere only twenty mile thick. But even so, sufficient mass and correct trajectory can be just the ticket for a hurtling asteroid to bury itself in terrestrial soil. And what happens? Well, at first there is a crater, wholesale destruction, and a big cloud of dust. But eventually the alien is assimilated, and once again there is only... Earth. But an Earth with a slightly different composition. An Earth infused not only with alien substance, but with alien possibility.
I'm not the only person who has suffered through the realization that I am not a conventional genius. I wasn't playing Mozart when I was three; I wasn't doing differential equations in my head at age eight. I'm only twenty years old, and already my opportunity to be a protégé is dead and gone. And, though I have my own, unique potential--the potential to live a life that nobody else could live--I still have a desire to rise above my own potential. But how is that possible?
Meteors are rich in iridium, an element that is very rare in the earth's crust. Foremost among iridium's unique properties is the fact that it extremely corrosion-resistant; it can even withstand aqua regia (Latin for "royal water"), a harsh combination of nitric and hydrochloric acid, used to dissolve gold and platinum. I know this metaphor will break apart if I stress it too heavily, so I'll expound now: while the unexpected integration of ideas can be disconcerting, I think that it has allowed me to develop strengths that I never could have had, unalloyed.
I can think of no reason that this concept should be restricted to language. Imagine what ideas and concepts and characteristics and strengths... and fears and insecurities and weaknesses... can be absorbed from the world around me!
This last bit goes without saying: doesn't it make sense to stay close to those that not only motivate me to improve, but also help me to develop the strengths that define them?
My situation is basically unchanged since the last time I wrote, but I think that my next update will be somewhat more substantial. In the meanwhile, I'd be curious to know; is this something you relate to?
Dan
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives.
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
Some things just stick with me. Words and phrases strike with such force that they compress the stuff of my mind around them. Others are simply received, as if I was born with a crater just the size and shape of that idea. Usually it is serious. I remember being very young and very furious with my mother. She had done something to offend me, and she was apologizing. In self-righteous fury, I turned to her and said, "sometimes sorry just isn't good enough." She replied, "sorry will always be good enough for me." Other times, it is funny or even silly. I saw a commercial today for a TV show and heard the line: "You are hereby sentenced to live in New York City for seven days... as a bush." I cracked up. Much more than the line was worth.
Those words aren't always driven in by their own merit. Music is notorious for the inertia it can give; emotionally-charged situations can do the same thing. In other words, you can never be entirely sure what foreign object will lodge in your brain on any given day. It makes me think of something else that deals with precisely the same predicament.
Imagine being planet Earth. Earth, which, assaulted daily by thousands of space objects, incinerates or deflects nearly all intruders with an atmosphere only twenty mile thick. But even so, sufficient mass and correct trajectory can be just the ticket for a hurtling asteroid to bury itself in terrestrial soil. And what happens? Well, at first there is a crater, wholesale destruction, and a big cloud of dust. But eventually the alien is assimilated, and once again there is only... Earth. But an Earth with a slightly different composition. An Earth infused not only with alien substance, but with alien possibility.
I'm not the only person who has suffered through the realization that I am not a conventional genius. I wasn't playing Mozart when I was three; I wasn't doing differential equations in my head at age eight. I'm only twenty years old, and already my opportunity to be a protégé is dead and gone. And, though I have my own, unique potential--the potential to live a life that nobody else could live--I still have a desire to rise above my own potential. But how is that possible?
Meteors are rich in iridium, an element that is very rare in the earth's crust. Foremost among iridium's unique properties is the fact that it extremely corrosion-resistant; it can even withstand aqua regia (Latin for "royal water"), a harsh combination of nitric and hydrochloric acid, used to dissolve gold and platinum. I know this metaphor will break apart if I stress it too heavily, so I'll expound now: while the unexpected integration of ideas can be disconcerting, I think that it has allowed me to develop strengths that I never could have had, unalloyed.
I can think of no reason that this concept should be restricted to language. Imagine what ideas and concepts and characteristics and strengths... and fears and insecurities and weaknesses... can be absorbed from the world around me!
This last bit goes without saying: doesn't it make sense to stay close to those that not only motivate me to improve, but also help me to develop the strengths that define them?
My situation is basically unchanged since the last time I wrote, but I think that my next update will be somewhat more substantial. In the meanwhile, I'd be curious to know; is this something you relate to?
Dan
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives.
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
FUN Update, April 25, 2007 - Before & After, Part II
Dear Friends,
Well, I sure took long enough. My last FUN was an epic nineteen days ago, which is the longest break I've taken since I started up the HUN late last year. I guess this is the part where I make an excuse. To be fair, I've only had a computer for about a week now, but the real reason is that I wanted to write a success story. I wanted to let all of my friends and family know what a competent guy I am and impress everyone with... well, I didn't think that far ahead. But I never reached that point. In fact, I've related the following to a couple of people: I entered this situation confident in my ability to handle my life and succeed. The fact that I was comfortable with what I was doing was frightening to me; I grew up in a bible-thumping family, and I knew that "pride goes before the fall." As certain problems arose and I began to lose certainty, I found that I became more relaxed. When God is in control, good things happen. When I'm in control, not so much.
There's a lot of ground to cover, so here's the agenda: first, I'll tell you the story of my move-in. Then I'll give a status quo and finish with whatever comes to mind (I'm planning to edit this when I've actually finished the newsletter). I shall begin my story a few hours after I arrived, after the taxi had dropped me off at the Greyhound bus depot.
I stepped onto the bus without knowing what to expect. I tried to remember the lessons of Junior High: not the back of the bus, or I was a trouble-maker; not the front, or I was a teacher's pet (or a bus driver's pet, which is quite significant since I imagine teacher's as having monkeys for pets, whereas I imagine a bus driver might have a pet lizard, and I'd much rather be a monkey than a lizard, though when it comes to it I usually just avoid the front of the bus). Seat positions were, then, what clothing became to me later: an oversimplified moral barometer that I gave up much later than I should have.
A neutral position in the middle placed me across from a woman finishing a novel. Finishing: so few pages remained that she may have been reading the "about the author" section. Wanting to be friendly, I turned to her and smiled, saying, "I don't think that will last you the whole bus ride." She looked somewhat offended and told me, "I know, I just need it every half hour or so. I've been smoking for almost fifty years now." Blink, blink. It took me a solid five seconds to notice the oxygen tube running to her nose and down to a small tank. I blustered and stammered and apologized but she didn't seem convinced of my gentility until I lowered myself to taking interest in her novel, which was obviously a harlequin romance of the most stereotypic variety. Yes, of course I had heard of Jennie Adams (though not favorable, I did not add). No, I hadn't read any of her books. No, I didn't read many romance novels. Yes, I was single. No, I wasn't interested in older women.
Just kidding.
The trip was long, but I had lots of decompressing to do. I was grateful for the opportunity to watch scenery go by and drain my cell phone battery. Around ten, I arrived in Tampa and was instantly full of excitement and energy. My new home. With skyscrapers and coffee shops and the ocean and a whole world of opportunity. The enormity of the moment buoyed me far above my concerns. I gave Chris (my landlord) a call, and he picked me up. I liked him instantly; he is honest and straight-forward, very down to earth and completely reliable. He informed me on the way that Leslie (my roommate) was still at work, but that Steve (Leslie's nephew) would be staying the weekend.
Steve. What an innocuous name. A blond, freckled, demure name. This was the first image on Google images. I rode a Greyhound bus into a town I've never visited to live in a house I've never seen to live with a roommate I've never met. I had no money, no job, and no prospects. But at least the person waiting for me was a friendly person named Steve.
Silly me. Steve was a goth/punk skater in the thorny thickets of adolescence. Straight, jet-black hair hung in greasy mats, and he peered at me, the new arrival, from beneath his uncut bangs. "Sup, Chris," Steve said to the man who had suddenly become my social body guard. A brief introduction. A short tour. I gave Chris first and last month's rent in an envelope because I didn't think I could do it if I actually saw the money leaving. He disappeared as if Steve and I were a long-separated married couple with a lot of "catching up" to do.
He wasn't so bad, it turns out. There wasn't a lot of common ground, but, like all, adolescents, all he wanted was somebody to listen. I listened. He took to me immediately. I waited up for Leslie until about 6AM, during which Steve kept up a near-constant monologue until he fell asleep around three. I finally gave up and went to my bed, exhausted. Unbeknown to me, Leslie arrived at about ten after sleeping a few hours at a friend's house and fell asleep immediately. This it was that both of us woke up just after noon, in precisely the conditions that anybody would want to meet a new roommate.
That is to say, we were both a mess. But she was friendly and personable, if a little groggy, and I was about the same, so it worked out well. We both got cleaned up and headed over to the Easter festivities. I will say little of that except that the family was well-balanced and friendly, and on a whole I enjoyed the event. It was very laid-back, and I spent most of the time eating and chatting and reading my new four-translation bible. Not a bad first day; not a bad Easter.
It also gave me a good chance to get to know Leslie in a low-pressure environment. Leslie is a twenty-three years old bartender with a precocious little chihuahua named Roxie. Leslie loves Roxie, despite the fact that she was a gift from P.O.D. ("Prince of Darkness," Leslie's name for her ex-fiancé, Shannon). They are rarely separated, and they suit each other well.
My roommate, landlord, and house all worked out extremely well. I feel very happy about the whole situation. The biggest issue has been making money. Without money or a car, my options are terribly limited, and that has proved a significant barrier. As it happened, I ran across an ad for becoming a poker dealer. As an avid poker player, I though I would attend the interview and see what I thought.
Here's the deal: the local Greyhound race track wants to open a large poker room. To that end, they are offering free training (it usually costs about $1500, a fact which I have confirmed independently) for the next two months. Of a couple hundred interviewees, sixty were chosen (myself among them) to receive this training. Of those sixty, forty will be chosen to be dealers in the new poker room. The training is 4-9PM M-F, and is taught by three poker dealers that are so accomplished that I actually recognized them. They have all worked at Vegas casinos like the Mirage and the Bellagio, and two have worked final tables at the WSOP (World Series of Poker). They are strict, demanding, and extremely good at what they do. I was hooked.
I've been attending the class for about a week now, and it's amazing. I'm excited about the opportunity, and I feel confident in my ability to be in the top ten percent. That is significant because the best of the dealers will be lent to poker tours (read: all-expense paid trips to places like Vegas and places all over Europe). It is a tip-based profession, and poor (slow) dealers can expect to make around $20/hr; excellent dealers make as much as $35, but our instructors say that can take a couple years to achieve. That's fair.
My plans is to work as many shifts as I can, and use the money I make to invest in real-estate. I want to deal for five or six years and invest heavily, then begin to live off real-estate deals. I'm excited.
The problem is that, until July 1st when the poker room opens, I don't have any way of making money. I am completely broke, and I have bills to pays. Thanks to a hard schedule to work around and a lack of transportation, it's hard to find much. Basically, I'm hoping to find some minimum wage job to tide me over for a couple months.
And that's where I am right now. That's how I'm doing. I'll try to get my next update out in a more timely manner.
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives.
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
Well, I sure took long enough. My last FUN was an epic nineteen days ago, which is the longest break I've taken since I started up the HUN late last year. I guess this is the part where I make an excuse. To be fair, I've only had a computer for about a week now, but the real reason is that I wanted to write a success story. I wanted to let all of my friends and family know what a competent guy I am and impress everyone with... well, I didn't think that far ahead. But I never reached that point. In fact, I've related the following to a couple of people: I entered this situation confident in my ability to handle my life and succeed. The fact that I was comfortable with what I was doing was frightening to me; I grew up in a bible-thumping family, and I knew that "pride goes before the fall." As certain problems arose and I began to lose certainty, I found that I became more relaxed. When God is in control, good things happen. When I'm in control, not so much.
There's a lot of ground to cover, so here's the agenda: first, I'll tell you the story of my move-in. Then I'll give a status quo and finish with whatever comes to mind (I'm planning to edit this when I've actually finished the newsletter). I shall begin my story a few hours after I arrived, after the taxi had dropped me off at the Greyhound bus depot.
I stepped onto the bus without knowing what to expect. I tried to remember the lessons of Junior High: not the back of the bus, or I was a trouble-maker; not the front, or I was a teacher's pet (or a bus driver's pet, which is quite significant since I imagine teacher's as having monkeys for pets, whereas I imagine a bus driver might have a pet lizard, and I'd much rather be a monkey than a lizard, though when it comes to it I usually just avoid the front of the bus). Seat positions were, then, what clothing became to me later: an oversimplified moral barometer that I gave up much later than I should have.
A neutral position in the middle placed me across from a woman finishing a novel. Finishing: so few pages remained that she may have been reading the "about the author" section. Wanting to be friendly, I turned to her and smiled, saying, "I don't think that will last you the whole bus ride." She looked somewhat offended and told me, "I know, I just need it every half hour or so. I've been smoking for almost fifty years now." Blink, blink. It took me a solid five seconds to notice the oxygen tube running to her nose and down to a small tank. I blustered and stammered and apologized but she didn't seem convinced of my gentility until I lowered myself to taking interest in her novel, which was obviously a harlequin romance of the most stereotypic variety. Yes, of course I had heard of Jennie Adams (though not favorable, I did not add). No, I hadn't read any of her books. No, I didn't read many romance novels. Yes, I was single. No, I wasn't interested in older women.
Just kidding.
The trip was long, but I had lots of decompressing to do. I was grateful for the opportunity to watch scenery go by and drain my cell phone battery. Around ten, I arrived in Tampa and was instantly full of excitement and energy. My new home. With skyscrapers and coffee shops and the ocean and a whole world of opportunity. The enormity of the moment buoyed me far above my concerns. I gave Chris (my landlord) a call, and he picked me up. I liked him instantly; he is honest and straight-forward, very down to earth and completely reliable. He informed me on the way that Leslie (my roommate) was still at work, but that Steve (Leslie's nephew) would be staying the weekend.
Steve. What an innocuous name. A blond, freckled, demure name. This was the first image on Google images. I rode a Greyhound bus into a town I've never visited to live in a house I've never seen to live with a roommate I've never met. I had no money, no job, and no prospects. But at least the person waiting for me was a friendly person named Steve.
Silly me. Steve was a goth/punk skater in the thorny thickets of adolescence. Straight, jet-black hair hung in greasy mats, and he peered at me, the new arrival, from beneath his uncut bangs. "Sup, Chris," Steve said to the man who had suddenly become my social body guard. A brief introduction. A short tour. I gave Chris first and last month's rent in an envelope because I didn't think I could do it if I actually saw the money leaving. He disappeared as if Steve and I were a long-separated married couple with a lot of "catching up" to do.
He wasn't so bad, it turns out. There wasn't a lot of common ground, but, like all, adolescents, all he wanted was somebody to listen. I listened. He took to me immediately. I waited up for Leslie until about 6AM, during which Steve kept up a near-constant monologue until he fell asleep around three. I finally gave up and went to my bed, exhausted. Unbeknown to me, Leslie arrived at about ten after sleeping a few hours at a friend's house and fell asleep immediately. This it was that both of us woke up just after noon, in precisely the conditions that anybody would want to meet a new roommate.
That is to say, we were both a mess. But she was friendly and personable, if a little groggy, and I was about the same, so it worked out well. We both got cleaned up and headed over to the Easter festivities. I will say little of that except that the family was well-balanced and friendly, and on a whole I enjoyed the event. It was very laid-back, and I spent most of the time eating and chatting and reading my new four-translation bible. Not a bad first day; not a bad Easter.
It also gave me a good chance to get to know Leslie in a low-pressure environment. Leslie is a twenty-three years old bartender with a precocious little chihuahua named Roxie. Leslie loves Roxie, despite the fact that she was a gift from P.O.D. ("Prince of Darkness," Leslie's name for her ex-fiancé, Shannon). They are rarely separated, and they suit each other well.
My roommate, landlord, and house all worked out extremely well. I feel very happy about the whole situation. The biggest issue has been making money. Without money or a car, my options are terribly limited, and that has proved a significant barrier. As it happened, I ran across an ad for becoming a poker dealer. As an avid poker player, I though I would attend the interview and see what I thought.
Here's the deal: the local Greyhound race track wants to open a large poker room. To that end, they are offering free training (it usually costs about $1500, a fact which I have confirmed independently) for the next two months. Of a couple hundred interviewees, sixty were chosen (myself among them) to receive this training. Of those sixty, forty will be chosen to be dealers in the new poker room. The training is 4-9PM M-F, and is taught by three poker dealers that are so accomplished that I actually recognized them. They have all worked at Vegas casinos like the Mirage and the Bellagio, and two have worked final tables at the WSOP (World Series of Poker). They are strict, demanding, and extremely good at what they do. I was hooked.
I've been attending the class for about a week now, and it's amazing. I'm excited about the opportunity, and I feel confident in my ability to be in the top ten percent. That is significant because the best of the dealers will be lent to poker tours (read: all-expense paid trips to places like Vegas and places all over Europe). It is a tip-based profession, and poor (slow) dealers can expect to make around $20/hr; excellent dealers make as much as $35, but our instructors say that can take a couple years to achieve. That's fair.
My plans is to work as many shifts as I can, and use the money I make to invest in real-estate. I want to deal for five or six years and invest heavily, then begin to live off real-estate deals. I'm excited.
The problem is that, until July 1st when the poker room opens, I don't have any way of making money. I am completely broke, and I have bills to pays. Thanks to a hard schedule to work around and a lack of transportation, it's hard to find much. Basically, I'm hoping to find some minimum wage job to tide me over for a couple months.
And that's where I am right now. That's how I'm doing. I'll try to get my next update out in a more timely manner.
------------------------
See pictures of Leslie, Roxie, and my new house. (Look for the album labeled "Florida.")
View the FUN Archives.
You can contact me by replying to this e-mail. To send letters or packages, use the following address:
Dan Kaschel
2011 Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
My phone number is 231-631-3016.
That's it! Shalom,
Dan
FUN Update, April 6, 2007 - Before & After, Part I
Dear Friends,
Tomorrow, I embark on an adventure. My plane leaves at 10:15 A.M., so my traveling experience will begin right away. I will arrive in Ft. Lauderdale and catch a taxi to the Greyhound bus depot and hope that I'm at least an hour early--otherwise I pay a $15 surcharge. I'll get on my bus around five-thirty and begin a five and a half hour trip to Tampa.
Five and a half hours. That's long. But how's this for weird: if I catch a bus two hours earlier, at 3:30, my bus ride is two hours longer. If I catch a bus four hours earlier, my bus ride is four hours longer. And here's the killer: if I caught the 11:30 A.M. bus to Tampa, the bus ride would be eleven and a half hours. So I decided I may as well take the later bus and see if I can find a bank to rob in Ft Lauderdale. Or a piano to play; one of the two.
The HUN ants staged a final performance, by the way. I got wise to their peanut-butter pilfering ways and kept it out of their reach, but it turns out that, lacking peanut-butter, they don't mind saltine crackers. It worked out all right, though; it was one of those boxes with four wrapped stacks of crackers, and one was unopened. So, as a gesture of goodwill, I put the ant-ridden crackers in a container and gave them an alcohol bath. I'm sure the thank you note will be coming in the mail.
Speaking of thank you notes, I need to send (another) one to God. Working through my mother's (non-Christian) step-brother (I think), God gave me a free laptop that is (more than) adequate for my needs. Sorry about the parenthesis... sometimes I get carried away. Moving on.
I have a situation. And it's somewhat... delicate. It's about my roommate in Tampa.
Here name is Leslie. And she's a girl. And if that weren't scary enough... she's female. In my early consideration, I didn't know it was a Leslie (as opposed to a Mike or an Arnold); but when I found out, I didn't mind. Actually, I was pleased. For one, I have five lovely sisters who have blessed me with an intimate understanding of the privileges bestowed upon those who reside with women. For another, her e-mails, which have been both articulate and encouraging, have indicated that she is well-mannered, intelligent, and mature. And (wince) a good cook. There. I said it. My ulterior motive.
Both she and my new landlord, Chris, seem like awesome people. I'm looking forward to getting to know both, and they speak well of the people of Tampa.
Some of which I will meet on Sunday. Leslie, being the well-mannered person that she is, said that, since I didn't know anybody in Tampa, I was welcome to hang out with her family for Easter. Having no better plans, I accepted. And, to be honest, I'm far more nervous about it than I ever was about going to Haiti or moving to Tampa.
Today, you've been given the details of what my next two tomorrows will involve. The second part of this e-mail will offer insights on the process of being mutilated--ahem... I mean, accepted--by a group of people I've never met. Hilarity, ensues, right? I'm breathing a silent prayer as I type.
In about twenty-four hours, I'll be getting into Tampa. If anybody wants to say a prayer for me, I won't hold it against them.
Your sincerely,
Dan the Man
Tomorrow, I embark on an adventure. My plane leaves at 10:15 A.M., so my traveling experience will begin right away. I will arrive in Ft. Lauderdale and catch a taxi to the Greyhound bus depot and hope that I'm at least an hour early--otherwise I pay a $15 surcharge. I'll get on my bus around five-thirty and begin a five and a half hour trip to Tampa.
Five and a half hours. That's long. But how's this for weird: if I catch a bus two hours earlier, at 3:30, my bus ride is two hours longer. If I catch a bus four hours earlier, my bus ride is four hours longer. And here's the killer: if I caught the 11:30 A.M. bus to Tampa, the bus ride would be eleven and a half hours. So I decided I may as well take the later bus and see if I can find a bank to rob in Ft Lauderdale. Or a piano to play; one of the two.
The HUN ants staged a final performance, by the way. I got wise to their peanut-butter pilfering ways and kept it out of their reach, but it turns out that, lacking peanut-butter, they don't mind saltine crackers. It worked out all right, though; it was one of those boxes with four wrapped stacks of crackers, and one was unopened. So, as a gesture of goodwill, I put the ant-ridden crackers in a container and gave them an alcohol bath. I'm sure the thank you note will be coming in the mail.
Speaking of thank you notes, I need to send (another) one to God. Working through my mother's (non-Christian) step-brother (I think), God gave me a free laptop that is (more than) adequate for my needs. Sorry about the parenthesis... sometimes I get carried away. Moving on.
I have a situation. And it's somewhat... delicate. It's about my roommate in Tampa.
Here name is Leslie. And she's a girl. And if that weren't scary enough... she's female. In my early consideration, I didn't know it was a Leslie (as opposed to a Mike or an Arnold); but when I found out, I didn't mind. Actually, I was pleased. For one, I have five lovely sisters who have blessed me with an intimate understanding of the privileges bestowed upon those who reside with women. For another, her e-mails, which have been both articulate and encouraging, have indicated that she is well-mannered, intelligent, and mature. And (wince) a good cook. There. I said it. My ulterior motive.
Both she and my new landlord, Chris, seem like awesome people. I'm looking forward to getting to know both, and they speak well of the people of Tampa.
Some of which I will meet on Sunday. Leslie, being the well-mannered person that she is, said that, since I didn't know anybody in Tampa, I was welcome to hang out with her family for Easter. Having no better plans, I accepted. And, to be honest, I'm far more nervous about it than I ever was about going to Haiti or moving to Tampa.
Today, you've been given the details of what my next two tomorrows will involve. The second part of this e-mail will offer insights on the process of being mutilated--ahem... I mean, accepted--by a group of people I've never met. Hilarity, ensues, right? I'm breathing a silent prayer as I type.
In about twenty-four hours, I'll be getting into Tampa. If anybody wants to say a prayer for me, I won't hold it against them.
Your sincerely,
Dan the Man
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
FUN March 28, 2007 - Genesis
Dear Friends,
This is the first update of the Floridan Update Network (FUN). To me, the self-evident question that hovers above this endeavor is: what is the purpose of this newsletter? Of all the curses in the literary sphere, the worst is, "self-indulgent"; so, while I am tempted to offer a shampoo-bottle answer--thoughts oversimplified beyond the point where truth can be preserved--I want to take a brief moment to resolve my thoughts on the matter.
Firstly, I hereby acknowledge the difficulty of "keeping in touch." It has been a challenge to do so with friends and family while in Haiti, and it will be even more of a challenge when I have a job, a new group of friends, and a brand new host of distractions. This newsletter, therefore, is a statement: you are important to me, and I wish to ensure that my own shortcomings will not through negligence burn any bridges.
Secondly, I acknowledge the value of being accountable. Knowing that my decisions will reach the ears of my friends will, I hope, temper any tendency I might develop to exercise my new freedoms with too great a sense of liberation. The are some words better left unspoken; and some chains better left unbroken.
Finally, I hope to chronicle this period of my life in a form that is more formal than a journal and less formal than an actual book. Though I'm not one to harp on the past, I've always believed that untangling one's past is a step toward understanding one's present. Thanks to a moderate level of formality, much of the emotional deadweight that is everpresent in journals will be stripped from my record, leaving a cohesive picture of events and reactions.
These goals are largely annulled without you, the readers. Since I value you, I will do my best to keep this updates sincere, lively, and at least a little entertaining. My hope is that the FUN newsletter will live up to its name. Because I am in Florida only until tomorrow, any my true experiences begin only when I fly to Tampa on April 7th, I thought I could perhaps get away with having one boring newsletter to explain things and make a statement of attempt. But from now on, fear not: I will hold myself to standards. I will still hold sincerity as my primary consideration, but I think life has enough inherent irony to make almost anything interesting.
As always, I welcome feedback, responses, advice, or "hello"s.
Here are the details of my plans thus far: I will be flying back to Haiti on March 29th, tomorrow, to carry back lots of equipment for Jean. I will be there a bit more than a week. On April 7th, I will fly to Ft. Lauderdale, and then take a bus to Tampa. I will either walk or secure transportation to my new house, the address to which can be found below. The next week will be spent finding a job and generally getting settled in. And that's as much as I know.
To view FUN archives, go here. To view HUN archives, go here. Send letters or packages to:Dan Kaschel
2011 E. Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
You can expect my last FUN newsletter to be sent out within a couple days of arriving in Tampa. Until then, I remain sincerely yours,
Dan
This is the first update of the Floridan Update Network (FUN). To me, the self-evident question that hovers above this endeavor is: what is the purpose of this newsletter? Of all the curses in the literary sphere, the worst is, "self-indulgent"; so, while I am tempted to offer a shampoo-bottle answer--thoughts oversimplified beyond the point where truth can be preserved--I want to take a brief moment to resolve my thoughts on the matter.
Firstly, I hereby acknowledge the difficulty of "keeping in touch." It has been a challenge to do so with friends and family while in Haiti, and it will be even more of a challenge when I have a job, a new group of friends, and a brand new host of distractions. This newsletter, therefore, is a statement: you are important to me, and I wish to ensure that my own shortcomings will not through negligence burn any bridges.
Secondly, I acknowledge the value of being accountable. Knowing that my decisions will reach the ears of my friends will, I hope, temper any tendency I might develop to exercise my new freedoms with too great a sense of liberation. The are some words better left unspoken; and some chains better left unbroken.
Finally, I hope to chronicle this period of my life in a form that is more formal than a journal and less formal than an actual book. Though I'm not one to harp on the past, I've always believed that untangling one's past is a step toward understanding one's present. Thanks to a moderate level of formality, much of the emotional deadweight that is everpresent in journals will be stripped from my record, leaving a cohesive picture of events and reactions.
These goals are largely annulled without you, the readers. Since I value you, I will do my best to keep this updates sincere, lively, and at least a little entertaining. My hope is that the FUN newsletter will live up to its name. Because I am in Florida only until tomorrow, any my true experiences begin only when I fly to Tampa on April 7th, I thought I could perhaps get away with having one boring newsletter to explain things and make a statement of attempt. But from now on, fear not: I will hold myself to standards. I will still hold sincerity as my primary consideration, but I think life has enough inherent irony to make almost anything interesting.
As always, I welcome feedback, responses, advice, or "hello"s.
Here are the details of my plans thus far: I will be flying back to Haiti on March 29th, tomorrow, to carry back lots of equipment for Jean. I will be there a bit more than a week. On April 7th, I will fly to Ft. Lauderdale, and then take a bus to Tampa. I will either walk or secure transportation to my new house, the address to which can be found below. The next week will be spent finding a job and generally getting settled in. And that's as much as I know.
To view FUN archives, go here. To view HUN archives, go here. Send letters or packages to:Dan Kaschel
2011 E. Oakwood Ave
Tampa, FL 33605
You can expect my last FUN newsletter to be sent out within a couple days of arriving in Tampa. Until then, I remain sincerely yours,
Dan
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