Van Goal

I'm dancin' like Fred Astaire

Today marks the first day in a very long time that I've looked at my readership statistics. It seems that the traffic to Van Goal has become as infrequent as my posting. I do apologize, truly, I hadn't planned on neglecting my thoughts for so long. It doesn't feel like I'm super busy. But then I start to go over my day - and it dawns on me that my last three posts have been written well after midnight. Maybe I am busy. But you reach a certain point where you can no longer ignore writing. The vocabulary begins to back up behind my eyes and spill out of my ears. It can be really embarrassing when random words like, "propensity" just fall out of your ears. So there is only one thing to do really - brain dump.

What is a brain dump? This is a brain dump. My mom has warned me thousands upon thousands of times NOT to write a brain dump. Often, there is no structure to a brain dump; the language is sloppy at best and the grammar is abominable. But proper grammar has never been my strength, so let's dump away.

I'm so tired of people asking me how soccer is going. I'm tired of explaining the situation, and I'm nauseous from hearing how unfair it is. If I didn't hear another syllable pertaining to my soccer career ever again, I'd die happy. It becomes aggravating and demeaning on many levels to have sympathy. I used to hate this phrase, but now I employ it daily just because it fits my situation so well: "It's whatever." Because really, truly, it is in fact, whatever. I'm not playing - whatever. That's so unfair - whatever. Keep working hard - whatever. I've adopted the notion that either I'm going to play or I'm not. No matter which fate I end up with I'll still have the same approach that I've always had. So hopefully that makes sense - and if it doesn't, well, this is a brain dump after all.

I cannot stop listening to folk music for whatever reason. Right now I have Casimir Pulaski Day by Sufjan Stevens on. Sufjan Stevens might be the greatest lyricist that I've heard....ever. Everyone should have to listen to him once - he's beautiful. I've also been listening to Ellis Paul, another folky who is beyond peachy. Hard, fast music is just too much for me right now. I just need whispy guitars and breezy vocals, because everything else going on around me is hard, fast, and loud. Oh, listen to Griffin House as well if you get a moment. Griffin House is playing now, and I adore them. Are you still following the dump? If not, no worries, I'm almost done....at least I think so.

The food here has officially become ridiculous. There is nowhere to eat a normal, healthy meal. By healthy, I mean the use of a microwave or prepackaged meat was not employed. Everything is greasy, and everything is microwaved. I've found a way to avoid dealing with the horrendously caloric grub by pirating the kitchen of a teammate. I hold the stove hostage as I make myself and the four guys who actually live in the apartment REAL food. Mom would be proud of how I cook "The Sauces of Italy" on Fridays. But honestly, you would think that in a college of more than 30,000 students - the university could give us something other than Chik-Fil-A and Taco Bell. Anything really, we're not that picky.

Okay, I think the dump is over. Thank you for bearing with me and my poor grammar and language. If this happens to be the last post for a few weeks I do apologize preemptively.

Peace n' folk grease!

My new favorite word is, "Cyclonic"

One of my pet peeves about school is the setting of most of my classes. Four of my five classes are held in a confined, monochromatic room under cancer-causing lighting without any air-conditioning is the ideal place for learning. Professors pose questions and are answered by grimacing silence. I truly believe the lack of class participation is the result of the oppressive surroundings. If I were to phrase my hypothesis in my Comm 250 class (which is contained by four hospital white walls and black plastic chairs) I would use a one-tailed ordered independent variable hypothesis that would state: There is a positive relationship between classroom participation and classroom setting.

However, there is one place, hidden behind the Johnson Center, canvassed by trees and second hand smoke, that oppression is not welcome. The Fine Arts building. It is a place where creativity skips merrily through halls adorned with sketches of apples, paintings of naked people, collages of John Lennon, and  a sculpture that looks vaguely like a coat hanger. The Fine Arts building is an abstract reality - the stuff of dreams truly. As you walk through the corridors you see pink hair, ballerinas, photographers, elephants, and splattered paint. Upon entering the Fine Arts building you are trapped in Andy Warhol's cerebellum.

Even the bathrooms refuse to be complacent. The face of the man on the men's bathroom sign has the etched visage of George Clooney (I can't make this up.) The woman does not have a face, only a blue dress with a devil's tail...scary. The handicapped sign has been ingeniously turned into, "The Thinker". The Fine Arts building breeds creativity. You have to be creative - you cannot help it. You walk into class with the unbridled desire to finger-paint. And there's no need to conceal that desire, you get extra credit if you finger paint.

The fact that the students are creative in a creative environment doesn't seem that revolutionary of an idea. It probably would not be prudent to hold a Communication Research lecture in the midst of Brice Marden and Lucio Fontana. But it is a breath of fresh paint fumes to step out of the cyclonic (holla chica!) norm of white boards and walls into the vibrant oasis of ink and paint.

Guess who cut himself shaving his unibrow?

My roommate, PARKER!

A donut filled with melancholy

I’ve been waiting for something inspiring to happen so I can write about how peaches ‘n cream everything is. I’m still waiting so I decided to punt it and write about how things really are. I never know how to answer someone when they ask, “How are you?” Because no one really cares how you are they just are filling dead air. A stock question deserves a stock answer and so the grammatically incorrect, “I’m good” reply is always a sure thing.

10:30am Saturday morning:

“Hey, Mike. How are you?”
“Pretty good.”

I actually was pretty good. George Mason is finished with preseason and our first game of the season was yesterday, at home, against Howard. There were posters advertising the game all over the place. We met at 10:30 for the pep rally. The rally took place in the Johnson Center’s food court, which was pretty funny. Half the people were there for the rally and the other half were there for lunch. The befuddled clashed with ecstatic in confused glee and there we stood in the eye of the storm. As our names were called out, I felt for the first time since I’ve been here, like I was part of the team. Pretty good.

Then the game rolled around. I knew I wasn’t starting long before yesterday. But I held hope that I would get the chance to play in the game's dying moments. With 20 minutes left to play, we were leading 3-0. With 15, 10, and 5 minutes to go and we were still up 3-0. With a second left it was still 3-0 and I was still sitting in the same spot where I’d been for the entire game. The horn sounded and the crowd cheered. And I was rooted in my seat.

It was a weird feeling. On one hand, I was happy we won. I was even happier that one of my best friends finally got his chance to play for Mason – on his birthday no less. And then there is the selfish side. The sinking feeling in my stomach because I know that I did nothing to contribute to the win. It’s a feeling that I’ve never had, nor care to have ever again.

10:30am Sunday morning:
“Hey, Mike. How are you?”
“Pretty good.”
“Great win last night.”

Did he even watch the game? Did he notice that my contribution to the game consisted of turning oxygen into carbon dioxide? Obviously not, so I thanked him and got the hell out of there. I don’t want to be infantile – people who know college soccer, please don’t tell me that I’m a freshman and my time will come. I get it. That doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. It’s all a process that millions of players have gone through. It’s hardly consoling. Hardly peaches ‘n cream.

So that’s where I am today, at 11:29pm. Pretty good.