a weekend away from it all

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a weekend away from it all Monday February 7

Last Tuesday, I had a hunch that my JET rejection letter was on the way. My mom called to confirm this information. I could stab in the dark trying to figure out why I was not granted an interview, but I think that I know. I have full confidence that I am a good candidate for their program, but at the same time, I must understand that the selection process is not entirely based on merit. Stubborn as I am, though, I simply rejected the rejection as their inability to "see the forest for the trees". I am an ideal candidate, regardless of whether or not one of my references remembered to photocopy her letter.

Last Wednesday, I received a call from Carol in the FMS office. She asked me to come over to speak with her and Mark, and I was greeted at the office with an offer letter, a handshake, and a "congratulations".

Last Thursday, I went to Monika's house for a final goodbye party. Most of the staff was there, and we played battle-of-the-sexes Trivial Pursuit. It was a very good staff-rapport building experience, and I was very pleased. That night, I went to Murphy's with my backpack; both myself and the backpack spent the night on the 508 couch. For good reason, though. No one wants to bike ride from Busey & Springfield to the train station at 5:50am.

Last Friday, I caught the 6:30a train to Chicago. I met Rick at his office. We luncheoned with his IT friend Scott, and I learned in much greater detail what it is that he does. The world of finance is a big game, and I think it is interesting that there is much "officialdom" in the pomp and circumstance of the market and its players, but really, many of them don't really seem to do anything productive other than playing "the game". Their gains are taxable, and their profits are theoretically pumped back into the economy as consumers, so I can't really criticize.

I can criticize, though, the mass accumulation of wealth without pouring it back.

I took the blue train out to California to meet Justin, who got lucky and didn't get shot or blown up in a year in Iraq. There was a party this weekend to celebrate that fact, and that is what brought me to Chicago in the first place. Jeremy, Jen, Justin, and myself (I adopted the moniker "Jesus" [pronounced hey-soose] to fit the alliteration scheme) went out on the town, and we saw a few good bands at Schuba's.

Saturday, though, was far more intense. Morning Jessica's, afternoon computer troubleshooting, evening VFW "Welcome Home" party, nighttime party party. I spent a few hours in a hot tub, coincidentally, the same hot tub I spent a few hours in the LAST time I saw Justin. He said that Iraq made him more rational, and I feel like I witnessed a more introspective side of his personality. I had worried that the war would have "changed" him. He's still Justin, and more importantly, he is still my friend.

At this stage in my life, I think that a mutual commitment to continuing a friendship, in spite of life changes in both parties, takes on an important role in defining that relationship and its value.

Yes, this post is in proper case.