Gordy at Work

I tried to avoid it, but my least favorite nickname has yet again hunted me down. They call me Gordy. I suggested others, Chim Chim, Gordo, Gord, Hans, but just as soon as you protest, they make their decision. So, I am Gordy at work.

Work is Coyote Grill & Cantina. Its a luxurious Mexican restaurant featuring a daily fish special, seafood enchiladas, tres leches cake, and a large number of various highly priced Latin American themed dishes. Personally, this is some of the best Mexican food I have eaten to date, which is no small thing for me to say.

As for job description, I am a jack of all front-of-the-restaurant-duties. This means I bus, I host, I serve, I run food, I smile real pretty and, most importantly, I rack in the tips! My managers are fairly cool people, being relaxed, but also very disciplined in the way they run the restaurant.

I don't know what I was gonna do with this post. I have just kept postponing it, but now I guess I will put down some observations, ya know, cause there is some good stuff.

The latino kid named Walter who wears Harvard and VT shirts, albeit he has never gone to college (nor probably ever will).

The salsa that just awes the senses and leaves the consumer an addict.

The Mexican dishwasher Himae who drives a new car and wears good clothes and looks like a hit man for MS13.

The fiery owner of the store that thrashes the employees whenever she gets the chance, affectionately called Tat!

The rather paltry amount of college students that partake of our services, despite the quality of the food and the close proximity to campus.

The Hobos who come in on Sundays to thank the manager Josh for volunteering at the shelter (God! They fucking reek!)

The fact that this is the busiest restaurant I have ever worked at, and its small size relative to seating.

Eat the Goddamn Seafood Enchiladas!

Feel Like Writing

I have not written in a while. Not for pleasure. Not for the sheer pleasure of letting words fall from my fingers. Fingers that seem less and less austere, more childish, and at the same time weathered. Today, I woke up feeling exhaustion washing over my body, my mind, my undying soul (when i say undying, i refer to the feeling that regardless of how tired i may be, that soul of mine will not perish, that it will not let me fall down, will not let me just crumple into a miserable heap). I had a list of things to do, a schedule that I had to hold to if I was to find any sense of productivity today. Shower, dress, wear specific clothes, show my Mason pride (even though i feel nor have any), eat (and even this had no joy for the food is tasteless and inspires nothing), pick up packages, go to class, go to class, go to crew, kill time (and why I do it and why I let the mindless indulgence take hold, I have no idea), eat and comingle, come back and work on journalistic homework. Then read. Force a book down my throat. It all seems so wrong, forcing oneself to live without wiggle room or boundaries. But it seems to be the only way to control my erratic tendencies, my habits of killing time, of letting things slip by. In this sense, I am disciplined without intending such a habit of soul.

I wish for a place of my own. I tire of living in this dorm. This dorm has rules, and I grow sick of them. Rules that prohibit what I can do, what I can imbibe, and which inspire nothing more than restlessness.

I am old, and I do not look it. I do not have the experience that I would otherwise need, but I am tired of the excess of youth. And yet, I so dearly wish to recapture it, to be able to connect with minds less mature than mine. But, I can not indulge in meaningless sex. I can not consume substance to extreme, for I begin to feel regret. I can not waste the entire day and feel no guilt. I can not just express my feelings, because they are not the feelings that people want to hear about. I wish, I wish I could be young. But I am past that time in my life, and I will not let myself tread too far backwards. I am not a slut of life.

I know this girl and she sickens me. It is because she is immature, and I wish I could find the key to her soul. She takes jokes too far, has no problem sleeping around, and lets her sorrows become drowned in alcohol. She does not know what she wants from life, and life does not know, and does not care, what she can provide for it. For this reason, she makes me disgusted. I know this girl and she scares me. She lives in a world where reality is something to be warped, to be changed into a state more acceptable. She will accept reality when she has too, but when no one can argue, she creates fantasy, accepts it, and trusts it. Her deception will only get her so far, and yet, that she can love this deception, this is what scares me. I know this girl and she makes my heart glad. I am glad to see that there are people out there, and even more fortunately are of the opposite gender. She is smart, well-read, and loves life. She is not above wearing shredded jeans, and yet will never let herself appear shabby or ill-kept. That I know her name is enough for me.

And now my time for sleep has descended upon me, and rather quickly. But will I collapse quickly, or lie awake as I do often?

Life Goals

Today, I was eating lunch with a couple fellow residents.  As we presided over our unwholesome burgers, fries, and raviolies, one of them proclaimed that she was going to break up with her boyfriend.  We were all a little happy/confused and she went into great detail about why exactly her bf was not up to par.  Her chief reason?  His life goal was to be on American Idol.

It is not that this is a particularly unwholesome dream.  Reality TV is glamorous.  Fits him perfectly too, for he is a reported "attention craver" and a notoriously bad rapper.  Did I mention he is a very very white man with the rapper moniker "TyKwon Flow"?  Whatever, its what he loves, should he not be allowed to want to be a success? 

The main reason this is not compatible with the aforementioned friend is that she has dreams of leading this country.  Her life is completely organized, there is no time for breaks or respites.  She is currently on the ballot to become a senator for the school government, is part of the Model UN, and *did I mention?* on a fixed schedule.  American Idol?  What a sad story...

Regardless, this got me to thinking what I want to really do with my life.  If I had a real choice, a choice where all worries just disappeared and life became rather surreal, I would spend my life on the beach.  Soaking up rays, getting skin cancer at 30, enjoying the unending beauty, and, of course, picking up beautiful beach babes!  But, I do not have a choice like that.  How would I feed myself?  Where would I live?  If I ever had kids, how would my decision make their life any better?

So, since I can't really just spend all my days on the sand and surf just yet, what the hell am I doing?  Becoming a square is really the answer.  Following the man.  Finding an education so that I can wake up at an early hour so that I can work for someone else, settle down, have a family, finally having enough money down the road *after 40 or so years* to live the dream.  Is that what I want?

Too many questions, I know.  Its cause I am asking them as I type.  But, I hope I am doing the right thing.  I wanted to be a journalist so much so that in high school I only looked for schools that offered such programs and joined a newspaper program offered by the local press.  But now, that is not quite the sentiment I feel.  I wonder now about joining an ambassador program, working for the state department, or, something of that sort.  Or a spy!  That would be pretty sweet as well.

My life goals, in the end, are not that important.  I am young.  Way young.  I am a mere fifth or even sixth of the age I will be when I die.  So, having a life goal is a little lofty.  I can have an intent, such as to spend the rest of my life on the beach, but without a path to get there.  I think this method will work for now.  I don't have to choose a major just yet.  All I have to worry about for now is getting through the week.

Nicknames

Allow me to introduce myself!  My name is Gordon, born Gordon Eric Day.  It is a name I like fairly well, and believe should thusly be discussed.

Gordon is an old scottish term for "born on a hill", and was chosen by my parents in honor of a neighbor, Gordon Jones, whom the had great respect for.  And, I believe that its a fairly good name.  Eric is the name of my father and was given to me in keeping with the tradition of giving the first name of the father to the eldest child.  Day is my father's name as well, and traces its heritage back along a snaking path into the past that I have neither the knowledge nor the wits to examine.

Well, now that that is out of the way, allow me to begin:

My very first nickname, to my knowledge at least, was Gordy.  My parents and relatives, and I am sure even close friends and neighbors, all used it when I was young.  It was around my early teens that I decided, quite abruptly, that I did not care for that name at all.  Not in the slightest! What kind of a name is Gordy?  It implies childish nature and a wishy washy temperment.  That is surely not me.  Maybe I rejected it as I attempted to reject my past.  Whatever the case, whenever someone says that name, I am filled with loathing and despair.  More often than not, I forgive these lapses, but that does not take away from my distaste for the name.

Shortly after that, I was called Sunshine.  Oh, woe was me.  I had not yet seen the football epic, Remember the Titans and did not know that that same name was given to a rather fruity quarterback with long blond hair.  As it just so happened, at that time I was in the throes of budding adolescence and a new member of Craig County Middle School.  I also at that time had long hair that I did my best to upkeep.  In any case, it was a rather mean and unfair nickname.

In high school, I don't believe anyone really gave me another nickname.  It was not until after I had graduated and gone off to the jungles of Belize that I received a new moniker.  This time a playful name as opposed to something cruel, I was called Chim Chim, Chim to some, Chimmy to others.  This was perhaps because I was the youngest in the group, and thusly deserving of the name of that little monkey who sat in Speed Racer's trunk.  The name was given to me by Tom McNamara, one of the leaders of the wildlife group that he and his wife Marcella were teaching Belizean wildlife and culture. 

Now, in college, I am known as Hans to a select few.  My first meeting with these comrades, I supposedly appeared quite German, with blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skin.  And thusly, was deserving of a rather Arian name.  I do not mind, I believe the name Hans to be rather romantic and manly, if not a little stereotypical.

Whatever, who really cares anyway.  Call me what you wish (just not Gordy).

Hell Ain't Got Nothing Compared to Us

Last last week, that of March 8-15, was my Spring Break.  And how does one spend one's spring break?  Sure, you could drink yourself into a midmorning blackout, or perhaps have multiple one nighters with random people who looked great at that party (not so much the next morning), or *my personal favorite* waking up at 2, 2 in the afternoon that is.  But, who wants to do that when you could be waking up at 7, eating a bowl of dry cereal and torturing your body with physical exertion for the next 5 hours?  Well, really, only rowers.

My friends slowly disappeared, one by one by one, and left Adams Hall a social ghost.  The place was dead, not a soul stirred in the Park, and the shops had closed down.  The campus had shut down, but I was willingly stuck inside.  Or, was I?  After wasting a perfectly good Sunday sitting inside and playing Halo 3 till my eyes turned red with fatigue, I crawled into bed at 11.  I awoke to the sound of an alarm going off, little beeps that bored into my sleep addled head.  The first day had begun.  I dressed in a tank top and compression shorts, prepared for a day of beautiful weather and balmy temps.  Andrew picked me and the other novices up in his faded blue Taurus and away we went to the Occoquan Reservoir.

There we rowed for four hours, our bodies jostling for space and tipping back and forth, trying in vain to set the boat.  As our legs slammed down and our sweat covered arms pulled oars to chests, we journeyed far up the artificial lake.  As we panted and tried to regain our strength, Dane, the Novice Coach, issued the order to row, 3/4 pressure, the 30 minutes back.  Once back at the boat house, I looked down at hands not only shredded by continual stress and friction, but fingers with blisters torn off and skin ripped raw.  It was indeed going to be a long week.  

The next four days continued in much the same manner, with the exception that instead of beautiful skies and warm temperatures, we were blasted with wind, rain, and sub 40 weather.  This, might I add did not make it easy to wake up.  However, we prevailed and novices became novice extremes, capable of technique and not just floundering.  More on rowing later.  The racing season is coming up, and I am sure will be a topic of much interest.

Quickly, we have almost begun!

I have meant to create a blog of my adventures here at college for about a month now.  Well, with a Sunday to kill and easy access to the internet, I decided to begin.  Oh, I know what you are all thinking, why did you start it in the middle of the semester, and not closer to the beginning?  And what on earth is this about Dreams and Nightmares?  Well, believe me when I say:  College.