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.

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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

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.

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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

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

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

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

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

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