The Extended Meteorology Family.

Autumn has always been the most iconic of seasons. The time of year most linked with change. The time of year where most folks begin to settle into their hibernation regiments for the next 6 months only to surface sometime in mid-April in a haze of, “What just happened?” 

You good folks should know we’re nothing like that. As these other chaps prepare to shift down, we’re clutching like lunatics in a mad-dash attempt to push the limits of, quite simply, everything we do. May I show you something?

Prepare yourselves. Notices have been posted. The authorities alerted. The Hubble has been tuned up. We intend to not only bend your silly rules, but shatter all preconceptions. This might be the single largest event to ever hit the Midwest, atleast since College Drop-out was released.

Thank you and Good luck,
Rory

Gettin’ back into the swing.

First I’m sorry for slacking on this blog.

Everyone, most importantly myself,

Lately, I have been investing all my time into my departing friends and reflecting on my life.  I have not been playing my trumpet, reading, writing (here), or for the most part exercising my mind except for the reflection.  However, my reflection cannot mature without exercising it.  Also, I have forgotten that what is most rewarding is what is worked hardest for.  Shallow satisfactions have clouded my conscience.  I need to figure out what morals I have and which matter most to me.  These dilemmas confuse many other incoming freshman I’m sure.  I’m also sure these are problems which will be around for a longtime in my life.  Some of the answers will come soon and others maybe never.  That’s life: learn what you can and leave the rest of the learning for those behind you.  Jezzz, my simple skills of writing, expression, and creativity have weakened.  Let’s hope first semester doesn’t kick me in the ass too hard, even though it’s an ass kicking well deserved.  In the end, I bet you it’s pretty simple.  I bet God will look us in the eyes and say, “You think too much.”  A man I very much respect, Erin Meagher who is the father of a good friend of mine, once said, “Either it’s right or it’s wrong, and if it takes awhile to think about it it’s probably wrong.”  He’s right.  So after all these confessions of problems, the question of how will you solve them arises.  Currently, I’ve got ideas.  Will they work?  Shit, if I knew I’d be an oracle.  I’ll just bounce back and forth between success and and failure until I roll into the success category.  Also, do I even have a right to complain?  Probably not when there’s starving children and many others in desperate need.  In the end, I just don’t know….and trying to find that knowledge is a good goal for now.

Enacting,

Apple

I really like this song.

The College Drop-In.

As I sit down to write this blog post, in my rocking chair awkwardly positioned next to a desk painted in my favorite color in a room on the far end of my Mother’s house with a staircase leading directly into the kitchen with my bed un-made and the evidence of two months of carefree living swamping the floor and creeping up my toes, my stomach flips. It’s hard for me to admit when I’m nervous. Which might be why I found it necessary to write that massive narrative about a lot of irrelevent going-ons and then throw the real kibble in at the end. Kibble. As if I were feeding dogs.

The date is August 13th, 2010. 45 minutes away from August 14th, 2010. Which will be 13 days until I embark on my continuation of school. I can recall feeling this same exact feeling 13 other times. History has always fascinated me. I’ve always felt akin to Pizarro, Magellan, and other explorers. I’ve sought new lands many times, and I’ve managed to perfect my approach at this stage in my life. I’ve tried every method of meeting folks and it’s odd to admit but at some schools I used to allow myself time out.

I bet you can’t even wrap your mind around that. You probably attended 4 or 5 schools at most. Try to imagine attending a school for 5 to 6 months and purposely making hardly any friends. Just so you could sit and observe people and disappear. I’m sure my ex- AP Psychology educator reads this and jots down symptoms of some mental ailment. But forget that. I’ve operated on every level of social interaction from the farthest rings of Saturn where only the loneliest of outcasts sit to the swirling, ever-burning, epicenter of the Sun’s core where the light never seems to stop burning holes into your face.

I prefer somewhere in between. Contrastly, my baby sister starts Kindergarten this Fall. She’s got a lot more charm than I did at her age, and she’s a lot smarter than I am now. I imagine she’ll be a pain in the ass, but the kind most teachers love. The kind of pain in the ass most teachers wait years for, assessing a new class. Staring each kid into the eye for that special glimmer that says, “I’m going to challenge everything you teach us. I thoroughly intend to push you, my classmates, and myself farther than currently thought possible. Enjoy.” I’ve had a few kids like that in my classes before. They’re certainly good compatriots.

I enter this school with a leg up I never had. I’ve an older brother to back up, and to back me up on almost any topic. When I grow infinitely large for my small purple pants like some scholastic variation of The Hulk, I’ll have an hombre to pop the ego that is my head at times. When I can’t muster up the courage to leave my room I’ll have a confidante to nod along as I discuss what’s really pissing me off. I’m fortunate to have Andy attending St Norbert College. I never told my brethren that, but he’ll read it here. It’s funny how at times I feel like you folks are reading my journal.

This time is a completely different scenario. As my Father used to say when I was 8 years old, “This one’s for all the marbles, bud.”

Aye, Dad. It is.

14 is a charm,
Mr. Rory Allen Philip Ferreira
Freshman
St. Norbert College

Life

Pardon me for the Tumblr-esque post, but I just finished The Sirens of Titan and thought I would share a quote:

“…a purpose of human life…is to love whoever is arouns to be loved.”

That is all.  Good eve.

Ranting and raving revisited

I am 19 years old, one and a half months shy of 20.  That being said, much of the professional world deems it necessary to treat me as if I am less than half my age rather than the adult I am.  Yes, I lack a degree past my high school diploma.  No, I do not hold a job concerning a desk or water cooler.  Yes, I am only entering my second year of post-secondary education.  Yes, your years and years of experience in the professional world certainly make you more qualified to undertake just about any task in this world than I am.

However, did I vote in the last presidential election?  Yes.  Do I pay state and federal income taxes the same as you?  Yes.  Do you contain another latin moniker after “sapien” in your scientific name?  No.  Do you wake every morning and leave a similar assortment of digested matter in your powder room as I do in mine?  Yes.  Does it stink, as does mine?  Most definitely.

It’s time college students start being treated like America’s future, not the piss stain that won’t come out of your favorite pair of Banana Republic khakis.  I’m sorry I seem to be inconveniencing you, I thought it was your job as public servant to serve me.  I understand you get shit shoveled in your face all day by cretin, but do not come and trowel your own little pile on me when I request assistance.  It is not becoming of anyone, least of all one that is expected to interact with human beings all day.

I am reminded of another song performed by my 1970’s English counterparts, The Who:

It’s an old adage, but young people are still people.  Start fucking acting like it.

Fuming,

Sully

Boston Tea Party.

There is always a time to come home from the frontier. To come in from recess. That moment when your Mum bellows your name and has a Mr. Freez-E dripping down her fingers for you and a napkin dampened by her own spittle (Was that just my Mum? I know I’m not the only one!) Anyway, these moments when one can’t find themselves active in the most ridiculous manner should be held in high places and even as a young man I still enjoy the moments when the ladies in my life require a time out. When my Grandmother suggested we visit Boston’s Four Seasons for tea, I couldn’t help but grin. Here was a lady who I have traveled all over the country with, ascended mountains, sword fought, wrestled, and destroyed like Serena Williams in Wii Tennis with so when the opportunity to prove myself a right proper gent was presented I didn’t hesitate.

Note: While waiting in the lobby of the Four Seasons an interesting phenomenon took place. The entire lobby was liquidated of all persons including staff, and became eerily quite. My Grams, deep in a discussion about family law, hadn’t noticed until I brought it to her attention. Moments after a small entourage approaches with none other than Mr. Mark Wahlberg in the middle, on his way to New York to be on Letterman promoting his new film. Dude obviously spends serious time in the gym, but probably came up to my shoulder (I’m 6’3″).

After having our brief run in with someone deemed more interesting than either of us combined, we made our way to the something Bristol Lounge for high tea. You know the format by now, here comes the ‘otos.

I assure you I started the afternoon properly with a wild floral print tie, but with the temperature climbing up into the 90’s, my desire to look the part of a gentleman faded with the speed that a sweatstain was appearing under both of my ridiculously long arms.

Some shenanigans called clotted cream which was a mix of whipped cream and butter sans any sort of sweetness, raspberry preserves, and a lemon meringue pudding-esque deliciousness to apply to the miscellaneous snick-snacks.

My cup / teapot full of Darjeeling. The description said it was a savory taste with hints of gold. I had no idea how one could taste a color. Now all I can say is I feel bad if you’ve never tasted gold. I’ll be in the local supermarket’s tea section scanning for Darjeeling weekly, now.

The day seemed to be created in a picture book about that one little french girl who got into hectic scenarios all the time. What was her name, Madeline?

Anywho, while we are certainly frontiersmen around these parts don’t pass up the opportunity to flex your refinement. I know a few lads who giggled when I told them I went to tea with my Grandmother. I admit it sounds preposterous if you know me. But then again, if you know me… you know that’s my modus operandi.

Sippin’ pinky down,
Rory

The City of Magical Fruit.

This is why Boston will forever be the only city I’d even consider living in. This is why Boston has absolutely nothing in common with whatever place of origin you’re currently representing. Cobblestones. History. The city is steeped in history up to your elbows, I imagine only Philly or some obscure place in one of the Virginias could give Beantown a run for its money. But I wouldn’t hold my breath…

I include this last shot because whatever that building is home to it looks like the most absurdly cliche factory in the world. I love smog.

So(ul) Amazin’,
Rory

Boston on the half shell (Day 1).

Blessed with a massive family spanning at minimum 5 ethnicities with major hubs on both coasts, the Midwest, and some extended folks in Portugal, I often find myself able to take a few days off from my normal meanderings to visit some relatives. If you can recollect as far back as my last post you’ll note the weight of importance I place on family so whenever and wherever possible I like to spend a few days with people who have .000008% more of my DNA than you do.

Lucky for me I have a magnamorous hub of family in my favorite city in the United States, Boston. My hosts for this two night three day voyage will be my Grandparents. : ) After a late start we went to the Boston Landmarks Orchestra performance out on the esplanade. I’ll let the photogs tell the tale.

This man here is the Chef of all Chefs. Your favorite Chef’s favorite Chef. Emeril Lagasse stole his old recipe book and is still collecting royalties off of this man’s chicken and dumpling soup. He was once invited to compete in the Iron Chef challenge against all three Iron Chefs, participated, soundly trumped them and subsequently all of the footage was either burned, mixed in with the other soot to clog the BP oil hole, or named later on as the food challenge for episodes thereafter. Do not try to outcook, outbake, outsautee, outbaste, outdoubleboil, or any other cooking related terms. You will not know victory. He catered our picnic and might I say I’ve never had better.

Side note: If Moleskiners started throwing recipes up here, would that be of interest to you fine folks at home? All of my wares will be vegetarian but that should in no way hinder you from making them and the other three lads are all, what’s that Wendy’s commercial? Meatatarians? Madness! Moving on…

It would’ve been both impossible and insulting to have taken a photograph before sampling the wares.

After decimating that cornbread-cheese-cassarole, 4 egg salad sandwiches, two bags of chips, and a rootbeer I was out of commission. But as any New Englander knows a picnic requires desert based off blueberries…

So when my Grampus threw a container of blueberries with a light sprinkling of sugar, I said, “Cool.” Then I dug in. Only to discover this was simply the first layer of our sweet tooth’s savorings.

This fine gent of only the finest breeding proceed to whip out jello with whipped cream. I apologize for the mess, but I mixed mine all around. After feeling like a beached whale, I could finally focus on what we’d come for. The music.

Here are some time lapse photographs:

Two hours of Beethoven’s 7th and I was knocked out. Not that I don’t find classical calming, but perhaps a bit too potent. The theme for tonight’s performance? Water.

Irony at its finest. But you’ll learn more about those projects in the upcoming months.

Beantownin’,
Rory

Blue Monk

Greetings from Silver Sun Pickup Land!  Once again, I have failed to hold up my end of a bargain to continue picking my brain in a blogful manner.

A fortnight yonder I was asked to fill in as Harry Houdini in a summer school production of the muscial Ragtime. Apart from being given the opportunity to be back on stage, this role has taught me a lot about myself.  One particular stands out.  There is nothing like a good escape.  Houdini, the greatest escape artist of all time, proves just that.  During his tenure as America’s premiere vaudeville attraction, he not only escaped from the bonds he donned on his person, but allowed the crowd to escape from their own, less tangible ones.  Harry Houdini helped a country through the first World War by showing others how free they really are.

That being said, great caution must be taken whilst escaping, lest one fall down the wishing well.  I shall attenpt to remain cryptic and leave it at that for tonight.

Searching for danger,

Sully

Family Matters.

I know a lot of bruvs and bruvettes who go on vacation far from their families. When the weekend comes, they can’t wait to escape the omniscience of their parental advisors and/or siblings. I don’t much understand that logic. Since a wee lad, all of my vacations have been spent flying out to visit my Mum and this summer is no exception. While I monitor shenanigans from half a country away I can’t help but wince at the lack of character in many of the folks I know… enough with the chatter. Today was a superb day spent with these people I’m honored to call my family members.

What’s Mick Dundee got on Milo?

Mother Milo perpetuating stereotypes. Hahaha!

A brief side note: I come from all over the United States.  I can’t really rep one particular place in our country and through my years I’ve had many an unsavory slice of  ‘za… especially what these folks in Maine call pizza. Of course, to every rule there is an exception, The Portland Pie Co. makes the best pizza I’ve ever had in my life aside from some gritty Chicago deep dish. You’re looking at buttery garlic crust slathered in the most saliva-inducing deliciousness of pesto this side of the Atlantic ocean, topped with a three cheese blend, caramelized onions, and fresh spinach. I did work on that beast alone, being the table’s veg representative. Lawd have mercy on anyone attempting to open a pizza shoppe around these parts. You’ve got King Koopa for competition.

What really separates the mundane from the extraordinary are the little things. The often un-noted details of every life that the average Joesmite bypasses as unusual or ridiculous. Before we could leave the abode for the day’s adventures, my baby sister mandated that we all had to enjoy a good round of absolute shenaniganism before she could even begin negotiations of where we would go. Never one to disappoint, the soundtrack was quickly provided and this emerged from the madness…

Apologies for the falsetto narrations. I was overwhelmed by the spirit. Huzzah. I can only hope one day you will all learn the joys of a thoroughly funky baby sister.

Godspeed,
Milo