I was sitting in Whataburger, enjoying a post-race reward of beef and fries, when my iPhone chirped. It was a text message from my friend and head coach Patton, asking me if I wanted to run in the morning. I gave him a quick call.

“Dude, did you tear up the course?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “Now I am tearing up Whataburger.  And in about 45 minutes, Whataburger will be tearing up my bowels.”

“Good thing you’re not addicted to heroin,” he quipped.

I had a hard time arguing with that logic.

Because I practically live in Oklahoma, running the Katy 5K takes a considerable amount of planning on my part. And because it is far away from my home base of McKinney, the race is usually a solo effort on my part; none of my friends ever run it.  All I can say is, “They’re missing out.”  Even though they didn’t represent, I wasn’t alone this day — thanks to the Power of Twitter, I met up with @SeeKrisRun, who I’ve been following since at least the White Rock Half-Marathon. Energetic and armed with a great smile, Kris was proudly representing her ‘hood of Uptown.  She even used the power of persuasion to sway her roommate to also run the race.

The day was sunny and warm, with a heaping dose of humidity due to the approaching front. Since I have been training well for the several weeks prior, I felt really good about this race. So much so that I let myself believe a PR was within reach. To achieve it would take a 5K time of 27:29 or less. Not unrealistic, depending on how good I felt halfway through.

The starting gun went off, and we began the slow mill towards the start line. Kris and I wished each other good luck and agreed to hunt down one another afterwards. Then I crossed the start, fired up my Garmin, hit the gas, and dashed down Turtle Creek Boulevard.

I started out very fast, as is my habit in short races like this: the sandwich of slow people I usually find myself between leads to a frantic start as I seek to escape.M y legs felt fresh in the heat, so I wasn’t worried about my oscillating speed. Once racers got sorted out halfway down Turtle Creek, I was able to relax within space and redirect energy to finding my rhythm.

Quickly ahead of me was the series of turns — a right onto Blackburn Ave. left onto Cole Ave., and another left at Cambrick St., leading to a straight-shot  towards the Katy Trail. Past participation in this event told me to not be shocked by the hill that was Blackburn; as I turned onto the street, I could hear nearby runners moan their surprise of the ascent before them. I allowed myself one small window to chuckle, then I set about the task of running strong.  And did I, making it up the hill, and to the end of Mile 1, in less than 9:00. On track!

The Racing Gods grew aware of my pride and confidence and felt something had to be done. With a snap of their powerful fingers, pop went my right side with a stitch. Such injuries are more nuisance than showstopper to me.  However, they are enough to slow me down, as they negatively affect my ability to draw deep breaths without concentration.  So I could either focus on my pace or my breaths. Since I chose the latter, my pace somewhat suffered.

It’s a good thing that Cole/Cambrick is a great downhill. I spent this easy part of the course manipulating my right arm back and forth, around and above my shoulder, stretching out that right-side ribcage.  By the time I hit mile 2, I had gotten over my side-stitch and could breathe deeply once again. Once on the Katy Trail, half of the race was left ahead of me, a smooth descent back to Reverchon Park. Although I had lost some time, Mr. Garmin told me a PR was still within striking distance. So I pushed it up a gear.

In previous incarnations of this race, the biggest beating has been navigating the funnel that is the Katy Trail.  Up until now, I was running on broad streets with plenty of room to maneuver; now I was on something more akin to a sidewalk, peppered with all forms of turbo-stragglers. However, those surly Racing Gods decided to give me a break, opening up pockets of space I took full benefit of for both passing and increasing my speed.  The best part about the 5K distance is its shortness. Even if you’re having an off-day, it’s really easy to rally your body to go faster & harder when there is a less than 30-minute commitment. An added bonus: a majority of the racers preferred to run on the straight concrete portions of the trail, leaving the meandering rubberized portions free for people like me.  At the 2.2 mile point, a final check of my Garmin confirmed that I was on-track (with absolutely no margin for error).  I focused on making the upcoming mile one I would be proud of.

This time passed quickly.  I was surprised when I actually stumbled upon the finish, I was so deeply concentrating on making efficient breaths and strides. Right before I crossed the line, a peek at the race clock told me I wasn’t fast enough — I was 00:29 off a PR. But it was easily my 2nd best finish ever. It’s good to know that the older I was getting, the better I was running.

Post-race, us participants were funneled downhill back into Reverchon Park, where a ring of food stands awaited them. By my guess, nearly four dozen local eateries were represented, presenting their confections amid a sea of well-beered athletes. I never need an excuse to run, but the run seemed like the perfect excuse to eat: cookies, tacos, pizza, beer, cheesecake, fruit, and brownies. So what if you’re supposed to carbo-load before a race?  As planned, Kris and I met up after the race. Thankfully she also had a good day, as did most everyone there. The Katy 5K is a good way to prepare for the upcoming marathon training season, and I recommend that everyone skip work and head downtown next year. After all, it wouldn’t be a party without you!

What the Heck is OpenCamp?

OpenCamp is the giant event that will host under its umbrella several other area Camps: WordCamp, JoomlaCamp, DrupalCamp, and more. With top speakers covering topics ranging from social media to technical development, content creation, revenue generation and more, webmasters and web developers, bloggers, podcasters and technologists on any platform are welcome. Camp-specific tracks will be provided, meaning those interested in WordPress can attend an afternoon’s worth of WP-centric sessions each day. The same goes for Joomla and Drupal, as well as tracks that will appeal to all attendees. But don’t take my word for it. Check out the OpenCamp website for more details!

But What About WordCamp?

As noted above, this is the 2010 WordCamp. It’s also the 2010 JoomlaCamp, the 2010 DrupalCamp, etc. In short, all of these Camps are occurring simultaneously. This allows each to share both resources and audiences. This provides you, the participant, a unique opportunity to get cross-pollinated in the leading content management systems. Personally, I’m excited — I don’t know jack-shit about anything except WordPress, and I can’t wait to attend in-depth presentations on Joomla and Drupal.

Besides this synergy, having a combined event just makes sense for our community. The DFW area is blessed to have large Meetups dedicated to these different CMS packages, and we believe that what we have in common is worth celebrating more than what makes us different. Check out our Manifesto to learn more about our hopes and dreams.

Why Should I Attend?

If you’ve attended a WordCamp in the past, you already know the answer to this. But for you newbies, it’s a weekend packed full of excellent educational opportunities and networking possibilities. We’re aiming for an audience of 1000 people, who will be addressed by the cream of the crop in terms of speakers.

We’re positioning this conference to be the biggest of its kind within the southwest (after all, everything is bigger in Texas). This means large attendance. Large attendance translates to kick-ass facilities and rock-star speakers. Trust me, it’s going to be huge: an event of Biblical porportions.  Just keep track of how our Attendees and Sponsors lists growing.  Wouldn’t that Attendees list look great with your name on it?  I think so.

What’s Your Role, Spamboy?

Like everyone else on the OpenCamp core team, I’m playing many roles. First and foremost on my plate is the OpenCamp website — hopefully it will be a good delivery source of current information, especially when we start sharing our confirmed speakers. Many people besides myself have contributed to it, so please let us know how you like (or don’t like) it.

I’ll also be helping with everything between now and then, hoping that we can deliver a unique conference experience. I might even speak again, if I can think of anything to talk about. Got any ideas for me? :)

There’s lots to do, and we would love the help. If you want to volunteer or present, fill out our contact form and we’ll get back to you. We also have opportunities to man our genius bar, where conference participants can get experts like you to answer questions regarding their blogs and websites.

Anything Else?

Nope. Except register now!

I looked to my left, and Jenn was thankfully still in dreamland. I could try and fall back asleep, but then one of two things would happen: I would sleep past my 5:00am alarm, or I would wake up in time but have unnecessarily exhausted myself attempting to milk extra sleep. Whether I liked it or not, I was awake.

I grabbed my iPhone and the culprit was soon revealed: a friend in Guam submitting her latest move in Words with Friends, triggering an audible push notification. Note to self: Guam-proof any future race plans.

I gingerly climbed out of bed and successfully stumbled downstairs without waking the baby.  Reaching for breakfast, I had to once again consider my choices, as I had the weeks beforehand.  What could I eat that didn’t have unnecessary or unnatural sugar?  Or corn syrup?

I soon settled on my regular meal of toast with almond butter and black coffee.  A few quick bites and gulps, then I got dressed and hit the highway.

Since moving to McKinney in 2006, I’ve discovered that participating in any Dallas-based race is a royal pain in the ass.  Traveling to them eats into my time with The Sandman.  A 45-minute drive coupled with finding the start line shuttles for my first point-to-point race in years adds up to a long amount of time running around before the actual run.

I was looking forward to this race for many reasons. Above all, it was the inaugural Rock ‘n’ Roll Dallas race, and there wouldn’t be many opportunities for me to say I participated in the first edition of any event. Secondly, I was not coaching (as is my springtime habit) so I felt I could enjoy the race without worrying about being responsible for anyone except myself. And in a cold season where I have been sick more times than I have fingers to count (thanks, baby Zachary), my training had been sub-par. Knowing I didn’t have a PR in me was one less element of pressure.  It’s a good thing I attempted to sabotage my chances with two less-than-well-thought-out changes to my routine.

First, I recently switched shoes.  Not just brands, but types.  In the span of three years, I had shifted from neutral type of shoe (Mizuno Wave Rider) to a stability model (Asics Gel Landreth and Kayano), then a performance shoe with the closest forefoot strike of my life (Brooks Ghost 2).  The reasons were largely therapeutic: several seasons of bounding strides and heel strikes had improved my speed at the cost of crushing my sesamoids and withering my calves.  My head coach Patton theorised that correcting this action would produce greater power and less injury, but only if we could promote a higher number of revolutions in my gait.  I had to get off my heels, hence the Ghosts. Up to the day of the race, Patton’s theory was slowly but surely being validated.  If the power and speed never reach their full potential, I’ll at least write him into my will for helping relieve my chronic sesamoiditis.

Second, it was the middle of Lenten season, and this time around I gave up sweets.  And because I’m disciplined in most things I attempt, I went all in: I gave up all items sweetened with cane sugar or high-fructose corn syrup, avoiding anything that wasn’t naturally sweet via something like honey or agave nectar. This included several staples of my diet, such as peanut butter, cereal bars, dark chocolate, Dr. Pepper, ketchup, margaritas, sweetened coffee, and post-dinner dessert with my wife.

My running workouts suffered in particular, as many of my trusted fuels fell by the wayside: no Nuun tablets, no post-run chocolate soy milk, no Clif bars…and no Gu packets.  The lack of familiar gels is what concerned me the most with a half-marathon approaching.  To compensate during those 40 days, I used Honey Stingers in place of Gu, and I placed extra emphasis on consuming more whole grains and fruits.

Thanks to this one-two punch of physical sabotage, I knew that come race day I’d have to rely on my mind instead of my legs.  In other words, my capacity to sweep away 13.1 miles of mental cobwebs would be the result of just how much I could lean on past experience.

I got downtown early, before much of the crowd appeared.  Dallas City Plaza had a familiar feel: instead of homeless people huddled into the nooks and crannies of skyscrapers, there were athletes shivering the morning away.  It was a long walk from the shuttles, and along the way I was able to sneak off with some banana and bagel I found in an unmanned food booth.

With plenty of time to turn, I walked up and down the chutes, attempting to get familiar with the course start layout.  I also had my iPhone with me, in case there was an opportunity to meet up with online friends.   And luckily, the Twitterati were able to hook up before lining up in our separate chutes. This epic encounter of the Running Twitterati included several Tweeps: Jennifer #1; Melissa; Kris; Jennifer #2; Lisa; Suann; Lee and Isis, the famous Running Couple; Brian; and Mark.  The girls were rocking homemade tutus — it would be quite easy to spot them in the crowd.

After completing bag checks and chatting for a few minutes, it was time to get lined up and focused on the race.  I arrived at Chute #6 and soaked in the scene: framing me on all sides were seas of people, young and old, large and small, stretching as far as the eye could see.  Many were swathed in respectful shades of pink, comrades against breast cancer.  I was wearing my own contribution: my Team Angie wristband, honoring my athlete who was diagnosed last October.  She’s been doing great these past few months, and I’d like to think it was due to good vibes from me and others at the Rock ‘n’ Roll Half.  Almost on cue while thinking about Angie, I bumped into two other teammates I was glad to see, Laurie and Chelsea.

As this was also my first wintertime race in years, my fear of being cold led me to be quite Boy Scout-ish when it came to wardrobe. I was swathed in two short-sleeve shirts and Nike gloves. Thankfully, all parts were expendable, which I planned to shed sooner than later on this expected warm day.

Soon the chutes were filled.  It was time to get this party started.

I looked inside and pondered my physical state.  Lent had not only been a cleansing in many ways, but also a travel through time.  With the lack of accustomed fuel and lackluster training, I wasn’t in much better shape than 2003, my second year of running.  Visualizing the 13.1 miles ahead of me, I had a passing thought that I might come to regret this race.

Then a crack pierced the air…off went the starting gun!  And off we went — to standing around for several minutes.

Because of the high volume of participants, we were unleashed in waves. This meant that it took 12 minutes before I sniffed the start line. As we milled across the timing pad like the well-toned lemmings we were, above me to the right were a gaggle of scantily-clad Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. They were vigorously cheering, shaking their pom-poms. I quickly realized the reason for their enthusiasm: all that motion must be an excellent generator of heat.  Then the picks of the litter were behind me, and I had a race to concentrate on.

The better generator of heat was running itself, as my weather prediction quickly came to fruition.  Three miles into the race, once the shadows were short and the sky blindingly bright, off came Shirt #1.  I was unaware of how confusing this might appear later on, as my earlier race photos have me decked in red, while the later ones show me in blue.

The weather was hard to figure out.  While it didn’t negatively impact my run, it caused distractions.  For example, my running glasses would fog up when I was enveloped in the shadows of Uptown, then clear up whenever a strong sunbeam struck me.  I spent several miles fumbling with my frosted lenses and cursing myself for even bringing them. Then when I turned east at Mile 5 and stared down the evil day star, I couldn’t have been prouder about a decision.

But I knew fairly quickly that today would be a run vs. a race for me.  I was feeling hot and worn just a third of the way in.  It wasn’t only my glasses I had to defog; it was also my mind, which was quickly becoming distracted (never a good sign for this racer).  I kept having to rein in my pace, which tended to increase with distractions, in order to ensure I had energy for the second half of the course.  I kept reminding myself to stick with my pre-race plan: run the first eight miles at a steady pace (10:00/mile) uphill to the summit on Mockingbird (Mile 8), then assess my status at that point.  Either I’d keep the same pace, or up it to take advantage of the downhill to Fair Park.

The march to Mockingbird had all the echoes of White Rock.  With the exception of minor deviations, we were running the same course.  Although tedious, I tolerated it because I was looking forward to the differences miles ahead.  The first chance for excitement was running through the Luke’s Locker water stop (Mile 3), where I slowed to spot my friends.  Looking left and right…no one was familiar…wait, there’s Patton next to Steve.  “PATTON!” I yelled.  “KILLER!” he responded.

That gave me the juice I needed until the next point of interest, rounding onto Mockingbird (Mile 7).  At last, a road I’ve never run down.  Despite the chaos of the Komen for the Cure water stop being right there, I zipped through and started a never-ending smile until the end.

Just past that water stop was the next of the course bands — who weren’t even bothering to play.  That made two bands in a row that were non-existent at this so-called Rock ‘n’ Roll Half Marathon.  Not a big deal in the long run, as I chose this race for reasons besides the music.  Now, if they could fill up the course with some reunions of 1990’s bands like Caulk, Slow Roosevelt, and Bass-X, I’d be there each and every year.

The mystical Mile 8 had arrived.  My Garmin told it to me straight that a PR wasn’t within reach, not after a string of 10+ minute miles.  This was good news, as it meant I could relax and enjoy soaking in the scene.  I started to keep count of things like Elvis impersonators (2), green wigs (4), and chicks in tutus (infinite).  And my pace started to improve, largely due to the downhill between Mile 8 and the finish line.

I soon grew aware of my upset stomach (Mile 11).  The combination of Honey Stingers, drinking only water, and the cloudless heat were opening a door to Hell within my bowels.  I was lower on salt and magnesium that I had hoped, but not at any level that I couldn’t manage for the next hour (that story would be different were it a full marathon).

I luckily had some good distractions up to that point: when running through the lower Skillman area, I reminisced about the years I used to live in east Dallas, in a old duplex just barely on the right side of the tracks.  Those were good years while they lasted: I would find excuses to work from home, so I could use my normal commute time to run and bike around White Rock Lake.  I also thought about my friends who lived near there and thought, “I really should give them a call.”

Mile 12 was my first true Come to Jesus meeting of the day, where I questioned the need to run the entire course.  “Maybe I should stop and stretch,” I kept thinking over and over.  Remember the wisdom and experience I cited earlier?  Both Misters W and E responded, “Shut the fuck up!” and I kept running.  I knew deep down that if I paused, it would be that much harder to pick up the pace when needed.  Besides, it’s just a mile between me and glory.  That, and a bunch of cameras and camcorders!

The end of the race was exciting.  We flowed into the northeast corner of Fair Park, past the Museum of the American Railroad that occupied many of my youthful State Fair visits.  A right turn took us past the gilded Hall of State and Tower Building, while the next left brought us to the narrow path of the dormant Midway.  Another left and things got really interesting: we entered a spectator-lined chute that spooned the west and south sides of the Cotton Bowl.  Flanked by fences and loud voices of encouragement, I felt like Lance Armstrong navigating a crowded sea of fans as he summited the Alps during a Tour de France.  You couldn’t help but kick it up a notch in a scene like that.

I strode across the finish line, feeling as good about the race as any other.  Despite the crowd, I had to remind myself to keep walking for the next several minutes.  I didn’t want my muscles to lock up, or to undergo anything close to a fainting spell. It wouldn’t be until hours later that I learned of a race death, not along the course but immediately after the finish line.

The organization after the finish line was the best I’ve experienced at any race since the Motorola Half-Marathon years ago. Immediately after finishing, runners were routed past food tables as part of their post-race processing; at White Rock, you had to finish, then wait in a long long at a far-off tent to do the same. I might have broken Lent inadvertently with some of the label-free muffins I ate.  I think I’m fine — after all, it was the Sabbath.

Then outside of the chute were several stands, each emblazoned with a large letter of the alphabet, which served as meeting areas for friends and family.  Once again, a strong improvement over other races where I had to give loved ones either complicated directions or trust that I could call them on an overcrowded cellular network.  If I had known about these meeting areas, I would have leveraged them before the race to arrange meetups with the Twitterati.  Instead, I stumbled around until I encountered some friends from the Luke’s Locker family (Jim, Tony, etc.).  Soon afterwards, I found The Running Couple (and their motorcycle-driving mom) and we hung out for a short while.

My chip time was 2:13:47, while I logged 2:13:07 on my Garmin.

I’m satisfied but also ready for another challenge besides running another Dallas race.  Until I figure out what, see y’all at my next race.

It was Tara, an old friend and head of the current hall director selection committee. Earlier in the month, I had once again gone before that group and bared my soul through another round of interviews. Unlike my previous experience applying for that job, I didn’t go into–or come out of–that process with anywhere near the same level of confidence. Tara promptly got down to business and asked, “How would you like to be a hall director?”

I had been waiting for most of the year to be asked that question. Thankfully, she couldn’t see the goofy grin that was breaking out on my face. I responded yes, that would be great. As she talked, I could hear in her voice the pride of being the one to share such news with me. Tara went on to tell me that I would start in December, and that I would be staffed at Bruce Hall, working under its hall director Jim. The latter news was surprising. Although Jim was having issues with his current assistant, a recently-hired co-worker whose performance had been underwhelming, for me to be staffed there meant they were being reassigned or let go.

Although I had to wander a professional purgatory for the past semester, it was worth it. I had grown in many ways, learned new perspectives, and met many new friends. And I would reap multiple rewards: confirmation from my co-workers that I was good enough to be one of them, a return to my favorite dormitory, and working once again with my best friend.

We were getting the band back together!

It was hard for me not to smile.

A snapshot of the moment when I heard the best news ever

The naked truth about my piercing

When I awoke the next day, euphoria and adrenaline had been replaced by equal measures of pain and puss.

The dude who pierced my nipple had explained the maintenance required to promote swift healing. Every morning, I must massage a fragrance-free antibacterial soap around my piercing, then turn the ring both clockwise and counter-clockwise to work sudsy goodness throughout the inside. On top of that, four times a day I must marinate my nipple in a painful solution of warm water and sea salt, which was most easily accomplished by lying on the bed and holding a plastic cup firm enough against my chest to prevent drips. Lots of details, yes, but all I could think about that morning was the throbbing in my chest and conclude, “I suppose there’s no easy way to take a self-inflicted stab wound.”

Salinating my vestigal organs would need to take a back seat, as that morning I was scheduled to meet with Kathy and learn why I was passed over by the hall director selection committee. I wasn’t looking forward to it. In fact, I expected the meeting to be nothing more than a kick in the crotch. Sure, I would learn why I wasn’t hired, and perhaps the lessons I learned would help me before the next time I interview for a job. But anything Kathy said couldn’t change the fact that I was now officially broke, a state of being which can only be measured by my recent venture to Sack-n-Save and balking at the thought of paying a buck for only 6 bricks of ramen! Nevertheless, I got cleaned up and went to meet my destiny.

I walked over to Crumley Hall, where Kathy lived and worked as hall director. She was a person of boundless energy, so much so that it crackled out of her every gesture, smile, and word. So much jittery intensity radiated from her that we often joked that she was a “crack baby”. Before I had left for Europe, Kathy and I had a cordial relationship. Now I was angry and wanted answers to how my professional life had become so derailed.

Kathy had wanted to meet with me more than I did with her. As head of the selection committee, she was privy to the discussions on each candidate, and depending on the outcome she had the pleasure or burden of being the messenger. It was her email that floored me in that Parisian café. Kathy started our meeting with an unprompted apology for the way things were handled. She had tried to reach me in Paris yet couldn’t. The committee couldn’t wait for me to return, as other candidates, their future staff, and the entire campus community needed to know who was hired. She had to send out the email that almost knocked me to the floor. But Kathy didn’t want to send a separate email to me explaining what happened — she (rightly) felt that I deserved to hear such answers face-to-face.

I learned why I wasn’t selected, and the news was hard to swallow. Despite my creativity, energy, people-skills, and record of hard work, the committee felt I was lacking in maturity. In their eyes, I wasn’t ready for the responsibility of leading a building of 400 residents and two dozen staff members. In other words, I needed to grow up. The whole time Kathy spoke, I winced as my shirt brushed against the raw nipple.

Kathy then surprised me by informing me of her transfer to West Hall. Located on the far west side of UNT and barely a part of campus, West Hall was a traditional discipline problem because of its all-male freshman population. Kathy had volunteered to transfer there and take up the challenge of turning around the hall’s culture. To do this, she needed two strong assistant hall directors, which were already in place. One of them would be Norman, a former resident assistant at that same building. The other would be Don, an outside hire from Pennsylvania whom I hadn’t met yet. To round out her team, Kathy needed a competent person to serve as front desk clerk and whip the administrative operations into shape.

It was then that she offered me the job.

I was speechless, so Kathy explained her reasoning. In her eyes, I was on the cusp of being ready for the hall director position. Being her desk clerk would allow me to stay connected to the Department of Housing. If I took this job and applied the lessons I just learned, she felt the next time I was interviewed by the selection committee they would be foolish not to hire me. So despite a committee of my peers feeling I wasn’t up to snuff, this one person had faith in my potential and wanted to makes others see it.

I was so happy that I felt like crying. I accepted the position. That evening, I drove down to Southlake to have dinner with my parents. And thanks to Kathy, I had some good news to bring home.

After the meal, we did our customary hanging out at the dining room table, my parents enjoying post-dinner smokes and drinks while I downed a beer. We were talking about all sorts of subjects when the topic drifted to the youth of today. And out of the blue, my dad pontificated to me, “Better not get your ear pierced. I don’t want any of that faggot shit around the house.”

My heart was racing! Surely he was making a random comment, right? Dad had no idea of what I had done the previous evening. And he never would.

My secrecy on that topic was an interesting analogy to the way I changed because of the last month’s events. Somewhere between my graduation and now, I lost some measure of my trust in others. Before I left the States, I trusted those who told me that interviews were a formality and that I was assured of the job. I trusted co-workers until they treated me like an outsider upon my return. And although I wanted to trust Kathy, I felt that I was best served by keeping my cards close to my vest for the rest of my life. Sure, I’d take her job, work hard, and improve myself. And the next time hall director interviews came around, I would show them what they missed out on first time. And maybe, if they’re lucky, I’ll take that job, too. Any every time I looked at my nipple ring, I thought that I wasn’t about to fail ever again in my life.

Thanks to my month-long European adventure, my financial situation was dire. I had blown much of my money overseas because of an assumption that a job was waiting for me upon my return.

During the 13 hour flight home, I passed time practicing some math. I kept performing the following equation over and over in my mind, hoping that its outcome would somehow change by the hundredth time: what is the result when you add “Bachelor of Fine Arts in Painting” with “only fifty bucks to my name” and “no qualifications for any job in the real world”? At the ripe old age of 25, I was facing what all artists brush up against at least once during their lifetime: total destruction. If something didn’t change, that same fifty dollars was the only thing preventing me from sinking into depression and fear.

Word had gotten around to Kathy that I was back in Denton, and she wanted to meet with me to personally explain the hall director selection committee’s reasons for passing on my candidacy. While I agreed to meet with her the next day, I wasn’t expecting much.

The night before the meeting, I was sharing a drink with my friends Natalie and Annabelle. Natalie was a quallty buddy during that rough time, with one foot in the Department of Housing and the other firmly grounded in the “outside world”. This meant that I could trust her to listen and understand my plight. Also, she was buying that night, so all the better.

Beer lubricated my logic enough that I came up with a crazy idea. What difference did make whether I had $50 or nothing to my name, so why not go ahead and blow it all? Then I’d truly be an artist: dead broke and on the path to destitution. Somehow I thought of Wade, my old resident years ago, and that the idea of having a nipple ring never left my mind. I also knew that Natalie and Annabelle had been thinking of getting their belly buttons pierced. “All of us should get something pierced right now!” I said.

So down we immediately went to Oak Lawn, to the piercing pagoda known as Obscurities. While browsing the display cabinets for an appropriate bauble, a heavily-tattooed employee asked if I needed any help. To this dude I bared my soul and told him the whole story of the past few weeks, including how I was down to my last few bucks and wanted to blow it here tonight. Fair enough, he said as he agreed to make whatever I had left the price for that evening’s work.

All four of us went into a back room. I took off my shirt and laid down on the table. The slight draft took care of massaging my nipples into glass-cutters. With a Sharpie, the dude drew little black dots on opposite sides of my left-side nipple. Then he produced a thin needle, which had a 14-gauge ring of surgical steel threaded onto it. He lightly placed its sharp end against a dot. With a calmness befitting a true surgeon, he quietly and swiftly shoved the needle through one side of my nipple and out the other.

There wasn’t any pain. In its place was my breath literally being taken away, as I felt my flesh collapse to the sensation of being stabbed. Like a crusty French bread, my nipple initially resisted the needle’s pressure. But like a Dutch dike, it gave up and allowed passage, the power of the thrust being like a hot knife through butter. It was over almost as quickly as it began, and the dude was cleaning up his tools before my brain even began to register it.

While I was still soaking in adrenaline, he asked me to hop up and check myself out. I walked over to the mirror, took in the sight before me, and found that I couldn’t stop grinning. If only Wade could see me now. Natalie stepped up, with shock and awe etched into her face. “Holy shit, dude!” she said. “You got a ring through your nipple!”

I had to admit, yes. Yes, I did.

Everyone else in art school had one except for me. Perpetual indecisiveness, coupled with a fear of making a wrong decision that I couldn’t erase, kept me from settling on a design. I would visit tattoo parlors across the state, browse around books of amazing art, then walk away. I attempted to use my own artistic talents, but my creativity dried up like an empty ink well. Nothing but 100% assurance that I was making the right choice would ever make my tattoo a reality.

Some of my inked neighbors at Bruce Hall offered some advice: Find some black-and-white drawings that I like, tape them up around my bathroom mirror, then look at them each day, morning and night. Then, if several weeks passed and I was still fascinated by what I saw, signs were favorable that I wouldn’t be disappointed with having one of the images as a permanent tattoo.

Their advice was great, but many months passed without any results. Weeks of seeing the drawings around my mirror began to annoy me, and soon they were all in the trash. My skin remained tabula rosa.

It was around this time I met Wade. Wade was a “dude”, a skinny stick topped with a shaggy mop of blonde hair. He had a habit of walking around in various states of nudity — most days, it meant only being shirtless, although there were times when his exposed bits brushed up against a misdemeanor.

Upstairs, Wade was a couple cans short of a six-pack. Catching him in any complicated loop of thought or questioning would cause him to pause and stare into space, a sign that his mind was in the middle of performing a reboot. He was that unique blend of personality whose silliness could make you enjoy your job as his resident assistant, but who kept reminding you of that job as he constantly broke the rules.

One day, in my room two doors down, I could hear amazingly powerful music coming from Wade’s room. I grabbing my resident assistant badge and clipboard then headed down the hall to do my duty. Wade opened up the door and performed the routine actions of turning down the stereo, apologizing for the noise, and handing me his ID, all without me having to ask.

From the waist up, Wade was his usual naked self except for one accessory. On his left nipple hung a gleaming ring of surgical steel. I had written him up just the week before and it wasn’t there. “Dude, where did that come from?”, I said.

In his surfer drawl, he said, “Man, it’s brand-new! Got it at a party last night! Doesn’t it kick ass?!”

I had to admit, yes. Yes, it did.

For the entire past month, we basked in the calming side-effect of being completely inaccessible using modern means. While in England, we stayed at tiny bed-and-breakfast establishments where one considered themselves lucky just to have a bathroom, let alone an internet connection. Our accommodations were slightly more stable in France, where we stayed at the same hotel for two straight weeks, giving us access to at least had a telephone. Sure, there was the pesky little matter of a language barrier between us and the locals, but it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be cured by some reciprocal rudeness on our part.

Besides simplicity, there was also mystery to our situation. Noone back home knew exactly where I was on this planet except for Kathy, the head of the hall director selection committee. Before I left Denton, I had explained the above-mentioned positional chaos I would be swimming in and provided her with my hotel’s telephone number. Since her committee planned to make their decisions during the time I was to be in Paris, the timing of this portion of our trip would work out quite well.

My interview rarely came to mind while in England, but arriving in Paris heralded the final stage of my vacation and made it seem very real. Like a kid who had saved up box tops and mailed them off for a skeleton key advertised in a comic book, I eagerly returned to the hotel each night hoping there would be a message from Kathy containing my expected congratulations. But the days passed, and eventually there were just two more days before it was time to return home. Kathy hadn’t called yet, and I began to fret. Did I give her the wrong phone number? Had something gone wrong back home?

Monica, a member of the “younger generation”, was squirming from lack of connection to the outside world. She had an itch that could only be scratched by plugging back into the internet, even if just for a little while. I thought it would be a good idea to check my email to see if Kathy tried to reach me there. So we flipped through our well-worn travel guide, found a cyber-cafe, and hopped in a cab.

By the time we reached our destination, it was nighttime and the famed lights of Paris were glowing all about us, giving everything a creamy cast and dramatic contrast. Like most of the city, the cafe was a mixture of old and new — dark mahoghany tables and incandescent lights mingled with the sleek computers and glowing monitors, all of which was blanketed in a murmur of various accents. Luckily, the manager-on-duty spoke a little English and we were soon able to secure a single computer for the two of us.

Being the gracious southern gentleman my momma raised me to be, I let Monica check her email first. When it was my turn, I sat at the computer then had to remember how to log in, it had been so long! Once I connected and opened up my email client, my inbox was clogged with messages. In the sea of subject lines, one quickly caught my attention — it was titled “Please welcome our new Hall Directors”. Just seeing those words made my heart skip in excitement.

Then it stopped cold when I read email itself.

The email was from Kathy. It began with flourishes of speech on behalf of the committee, about how hard it was to choose from so many qualified candidates, etc. I scrolled down past all of this to the heart of the matter. There it was, the list of new hires, and my name was not on it.

I reread the email to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. I looked through the rest of my inbox to see if there were any other messages from Kathy, which there weren’t. This couldn’t be possible, I thought. People told me that I was a sure thing. What went wrong? What did I miss? And why didn’t Kathy call to tell me the results directly, like she promised?

Drowning in a sea of jumbled thoughts, my brain began to swim inside of my skull. I felt hot and clammy, and the stuffiness of the cafe seemed to increase like an preheating oven. I got up to head outside and get some fresh air, but my knees decided to rebel and buckle beneath me. I was beginning to faint. Monica popped up to grab me before something happened. She had read over my shoulder and was an eyewitness to the shattering of my life. She eased me back down into the chair and tried to calm me down.

And there I was — an American in Paris, flat broke and jobless.

For close to four years, I had been dutifully forwarding any extra money I stumbled upon to my childhood savings account in Minnesota. Far away from temptation and spending urges, the money waited for the day it would be withdrawn, convert it into colorful European banknotes, and like a modern-day Johnny Appleseed spread it amongst the Old World and sow some memories.

The trip would begin almost immediately after graduation and span nearly a month. I wasn’t going alone — my best friend Jim and mutual friend Monica would be making the journey. Flying first to England, we were to wander about, stumbling into odd corners of the countryside between Edinburgh, Salisbury, London, and the cliffs of Dover. After several days, we would travel to Paris and spend the final two weeks of our vacation cheering on the United States Men’s National Soccer Team in their valiant struggle against the rest of the planet during that year’s World Cup.

The timing worked well, except for one problem — at the same time as my vacation were several weeks of hall director interviews, which didn’t commence until after I was overseas. Being a hall director was the next step in my career path, a position where I would be given the responsibility to guide a community of nearly 500 students and employees. I had been lucky to serve under a great role model of a hall director — Jim. I admired not only his care for students, but also his resilience in the face of departmental politics. If I could be half the professional he was, I felt I had the chance to be a good hall director. Many people I worked with felt the same and were excited to know I was interviewing.

The selection committee hoped to complete their work and hire candidates before I returned. Knowing my circumstances, they were flexible enough to conduct my interview before I left. Although the hiring deadline occurred halfway through my trip, Kathy, the head of the selection committee, took down my overseas email, phone, and address and promised to tell me the results directly. I did my interview, and immediate feedback was that I did quite well. Everyone said the job was mine to lose.

Bookended by college graduation before and my future job afterwards, this trip would likely be my last time to relax before I was to grow up and join the world of professionals. Now, it was time to go see the world…finally!