At Zonga falls. I wander the earth, like Cain without the back story.
And, in that vein, this post will be self indulgent, pretentious, and dead sexy, all at the same time.
This is now my 7th month in the DRC (how time flies!) and I don’t know if it’s the heat, the beer, or the strange arm rash, but it has put me in a reflective mood. Who would have thought, 20 years ago, that I’d be here today, teaching the future generation? On the other side of the world? While still owning a Morbid Angel T shirt?
Just goes to show, one never knows (sounds like a rejected Dylan song). 20 years ago, I was a snively little kid with a terrible Cliff Burton mustache, the first male earring at my middle school, and that kind of half way long hair that developing rockers have to suffer through, and which makes their head look like a penis which had been circumcised by an autistic mohel. I was getting Cs and Ds in school, failing math, and learning how to rock. Now, I am a 34 year old man with a nascent Jim “The Anvil” Niedhart goatee, a complete lack of any sort of jewelry, my sexy locks have been shorn, and I teach Math.
Still learning to rock though.
And I’ve been all over the world- well, except for those craggily European bits, with the fjords and such. I’ve seen the sun rise on beaches belonging to countries I didn’t even know existed 15 years ago. I have met awesome people, and had wonderful times, on four different continents. This summer I will be spending four weeks in Mallorca, Spain, followed by kickass good times in Wacken, before coming back to the DRC. Next year, who knows? It’s like Bon Jovi says: “I’ve seen a million faces, and I’ve rocked them all.” Although I don’t know how many faces I’ve actually rocked, nor what a face rocking would look like. Probably something that my school web browser would block.
On the other hand, while I’ve made some kick ass friends over the years, many are friends I haven’t seen in a long time (I need to set up a Matt Lippart reunion tour). Most of my Stateside peeps have houses (or at least boxes that could be made into houses) whereas when I go home, I first have to decide where that home is, and who’s couch it’ll be on, and what kind of beer they have.
All in all, although I no longer have any tear away pants, I am blessed, dear reader, even if I haven’t been able to rock your face as of yet. Considering the grand total plan for my future, thought up at 13, was to “not live at home”, I think I’ve done pretty well for myself. And, when the need arises, I can still pull off the Dirty Dancing move, even without the leather pants.
Now if I could just get back the abs I had senior year at St. John’s.