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
Saturday, April 28, 2007
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
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