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Subject: eda-thoughts-digest V2 #16
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eda-thoughts-digest     Saturday, January 16 1999     Volume 02 : Number 016




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                               Today's Subjects:
                               -----------------
  ET: Varsity Blues                      [rockabye@juno.com (Scott- e Sykes)]
  Re: ET: OMG...am I talking about the tommy thing, too?  [Uneaq1@webtv.net ]
  ET: A Must Read                  [beccahusky1@juno.com (Kristin A Maynard)]
  Re: ET: OMG...am I talking about the tommy thing, too?  ["Kevin Pease" <kb]

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Date: Sat, 16 Jan 1999 00:48:27 -0600
From: rockabye@juno.com (Scott- e Sykes)
Subject: ET: Varsity Blues

Hey Everyone,

	I saw Varsity Blues today and didn't think was going to be very good but
it was very good!  If anyone is from Texas as i am then you know this
story is oh so true!  Actually, this story really defines part of my
highschool years, i guess you could call me Moxon (James Vanderbeek or
Dawson)!  I really think if you like the story behind it then you should
see it!

			Thanks!


                                             "Scott S."
                                         -Big Sexy Angel
                         "formerly known as sesykes@juno.com"
                   P.E.A.C.C.E  President/Founder and Proud EDA!
                          http://www.webpost.net/ro/rocksolid

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Date: Sat, 16 Jan 1999 03:08:46 -0800 (PST)
From: Uneaq1@webtv.net (Maggie)
Subject: Re: ET: OMG...am I talking about the tommy thing, too?

I have ben apointd as the defender of th baggy-clothes wering group. *S*
Please excuse my typos as our keyboard BITES! 

Respectable is not detemined by the clothes you wear, but by the way you
carry yourself. I wear baggy jeans, flannel shirts, and my favorite
shoes are my combat boots. I belive that designer labels are simply
status signs and are actually somewhat discriminative. I don't know your
ful opinion, I'm not trying to change your veiw, I am simply stating
that I belive respectability is not something that is necesarily
determined by clothes. I have stopped wearing makeup and worrying about
how I look. I have also done a complete 360' in my self esteem because
now it is not based on someone else's opinion of me, but my opinion of
myself. I am wholly comfortable with myself and I belive I have gained
respect, not handed it. Just ask yourself this..."Would I still be
wearing this if it didn't have POLO/Tommy written all over it?"
Personally, I don't want someone's name written on my ass or their logo
on my coat or their colors on my shirt. But this is my veiw. I RESPECT
yours and I'm sure mine or parts of mine make absolutely no sense to
you. But thanks for listening anyway, 'kay?
Oh yeah, any questions, just e me....
Maggie

------------------------------

Date: Sat, 16 Jan 1999 11:34:23 -0500
From: beccahusky1@juno.com (Kristin A Maynard)
Subject: ET: A Must Read

sniff * sniff!! :'-( Read this!

I PROMISE I WILL ALWAYS FORGIVE YOU
         Lisa sat on the floor of her old room, staring at the box that
lay in front of her. It was an old shoe box that she had decorated 
to become a memory box many years before. Stickers and penciled 
flowers covered the top and sides. Its edges were worn, the corners fo
the 
lid taped so as to keep their shape.
        It had been three years since Lisa last opened the box. A
sudden move to Boston had kept her from packing it. But now that she was 
back home, she took the time to look again at the memories. Fingering 
the corners of the box and stroking its cover, Lisa pictured in her 
mind what was inside.

         There was a photo of the family trip to the Grand Canyon, a note
from her friend telling her that Nick Bicotti liked her, and the Indian
arrowhead she had found while on her senior class trip.
         One by one, she remembered the items in the box, 
lingering over the sweetest, until she came to the last and only painful
memory. She knew what it looked like--a single sheet of paper upon which
lines had been drawn to form boxes, 490 of them to be exact. And each box
 contained a check mark, one for each time.
   the story behind it..........
        "How many times must I forgive my brother?" the disciple Peter
 had asked Jesus. "Seven times?" Lisa's Sunday school teacher had 
read Jesus'surprise answer to the class. "Seventy times seven."
         Lisa had leaned over to her brother Brent as the teacher
continued reading.  "How many times is that?" she whispered. 
Brent,though two years younger, was smarter than she was.  "Four hundred
and ninety," Brent wrote on the corner of his Sunday school paper. 
Lisa saw the message, nodded, and sat back in her chair. She watched her
brother as the lesson continued. He was small for his age, with narrow
shoulders and short arms. His glasses were too large for his face, and
his hair always matted in swirls. He bordered on being a nerd, but his
incredible skills at everything, especially music,made him popular with
his classmates.
       Brent had learned to play the piano at age four, the clarinet at
age seven, and had just begun to play oboe.  His music teachers 
said he'd be a famous musician someday. There was only one thing at which
Lisa was better than Brent--basketball. They played it almost every 
afternoon after school. Brent could have refused to play, but he knew
that 
it was Lisa's only joy in the midst of her struggles to get C's and D's
at 
school.
       Lisa's attention came back to her Sunday school teacher as 
the woman finished the lesson and closed with prayer.  That same 
Sunday afternoon found brother and sister playing basketball in the 
driveway. It was then that the counting had begun.  Brent was guarding
Lisa as she dribbled toward the basket. He had tried to bat the ball
away, got 
his face near her elbow, and took a shot on the chin.  "Ow!", he cried 
out and turned away.
       Lisa saw her opening and drove to the basket, making an 
easy lay-up. She gloated over her success but stopped when she saw 
Brent. "You okay?",she asked.  Brent shrugged his shoulders.  "Sorry,"
Lisa 
said.
"Really. It was a cheap shot."  "It's all right. I forgive you," he said.
A thin smile then formed on his face.  "Just 489 more times though."
        "Whaddaya mean?"  Lisa asked.
       "You know...what we learned in Sunday school today.  
You're supposed to forgive someone 490 times. I just forgave you, so now 
you have 489 left," he kidded.  The two of them laughed at the thought 
of keeping track of every time Lisa had done something to Brent. They
were sure she had gone past 490 long ago.
        The rain interrupted their game, and the two moved indoors.
 "Wanna play Battleship?" Lisa asked.  Brent agreed, and they were 
soon on the floor of the living room with their game boards in front of 
them. Each took turns calling out a letter and number combination, 
hoping to hit each other's ships.      
   Lisa knew she was in trouble as the game went on. Brent 
had only lost one ship out of five. Lisa had lost three. Desperate to
win, 
she found herself leaning over the edge of Brent's barrier ever so
slightly.
 She was thus able to see where Brent had placed two fo his ships. 
She quickly evened the score.
          Pleased, Lisa searched once more for the location of the last
two
 ships.  She peered over the barrier again, but htis time Brent caught
her
 in the act.  "Hey, you're cheating!" He stared at her in disbelief.
 Lisa's face turned red. Her lips quivered. "I'm sorry," she said,
staring at the carpet.  There was not much Brent could say. He 
knew Lisa sometimes did things like this.  He felt sorry that Lisa found
so 
few things she could do well.  It was wrong for her to cheat, but he 
knew the temptation was hard for her.
          "Okay, I forgive you," Brent said. Then he added with a 
small laugh, "I guess it's down to 488 now, huh?"
        "Yeah, I guess so."  She returned his kindness with a weak smile
and added, "Thanks for being my brother, Brent."
         Brent's forgiving spirit gripped Lisa, and she wanted him to
know how sorry she was. It was that evening that she had made the chart
with the 490 boxes. She showed it to him before he went to bed. "We can
keep track of every time I mess up and you forgive me," she said.
         "See, I'll put a check in each box--like this." She placed two
marks in the upper left-hand boxes.
      "These are for today."  Brent raised his hands to protest.
	"You don't need to keep--"
      "Yes I do!" Lisa interrupted. "You're always forgiving me, and I
want to keep track. Just let me do this!" She went back to her room and
tacked the chart to her bulletin board.
        There were many opportunities to fill in the chart in the years
that followed. She once told the kids at school that Brent talked in his
sleep and called out Rhonda Hill's name, even though it wasn't true.The
teasing caused Brent days and days of misery. When she realized how cruel
she had been, Lisa apologized sincerely. That night she marked box number
96. Forgiveness number 211 came in the tenth grade when Lisa failed to
 bring home his English book. Brent had stayed home sick that day and
had asked her to bring it so he could study for a quiz. She forgot and he
got
 a C.
      Number 393 was for lost keys...418 for the extra bleach she put in
the washer, which ruined his favorite polo shirt...449, the dent 
she had put in his car when she had borrowed it.
      There was a small ceremony when Lisa checked number 490. 
She used a gold pen for the check mark, had Brent sign the chart, and
then 
placed it in her memory box.
        "I guess that's the end," Lisa said.
      "No more screw-ups from me anymore!" Brent just laughed.
        "Yeah, right."  Number 491 was just another one of Lisa's
careless mistakes, but its hurt lasted a lifetime. Brent had become all
thathis
 music teachers said he would. Few could play the oboe better than he. In
his fourth year at the best music school in the United States, he
received the opportunity of a lifetime--a chance to try out for New York
City's great orchestra.
        The tryout would be held sometime during the following two
weeks. It would be the fulfillment of  his young dreams.  But he never 
got the chance.  Brent had been out when the call about the tryout came
to 
the house.
 Lisa was the only one home and on her way out the door, eager to get to
 work on time.      
	  "Two-thirty on the tenth," the secretary said on the phone. 
Lisa did not have a pen, but she told herself that she could remember it.
        "Got it. Thanks." I can remember that, she thought. But she did
not. It was a week later around the dinner table that Lisa realized her
mistake.
       "So, Brent," his mom asked him, "When do you try out?" 
"Don't know yet. They're supposed to call." Lisa froze in her seat.
     "Oh, no!" she blurted ouy loud. "What's today's date? Quick!"
       "It's the twelfth," her dad answered. "Why?"
       A terrible pain ripped through Lisa's heart. She buried her face
in her hands, crying.  "Lisa, what's the matter?" her mother asked.
      Through sobs Lisa explained what had happened. "It was two days
ago...the tryout...two-thirty...the call came...last week." 
 Brent sat back in his chair, not believing Lisa.
   "Is this one of your jokes, sis?" he asked, though he could tell her
misery was real.  She shook her head, still unable to look at him.
       "Then I really missed it?"  She nodded.
        Brent ran out of the kitchen without a word. He did not come out
of his room the rest of the evening. Lisa tried once to knock on the
door, but she could not face him. She went to her room where she cried
bitterly.
     Suddenly she knew that she had to do. She had ruined Brent's life.
He
 could never forgive her for that. She had failed her family, and there
was nothing to do but to leave home.  Lisa packed her pickup truck in the
middle of the night and left a note behind, telling her folks she'd be
all right. She began writing a note to Brent, but her words sounded empty
to her.  Nothing I say could make a difference anyway, she thought.
     Two days later she got a job as a waitress in Boston. She 
found an apartment not too far from the restaurant.  Her parents tried 
many times to reach her, but Lisa ignored their letters.
        "It's too late," she wrote them once. "I've ruined Brent's life,
and I'm not coming back."
     Lisa did not think she would ever see home again. But one day in
 the restaurant where she worked she saw a face she knew.  "Lisa!" 
said Mrs. Nelson, looking up from her plate. "What a surprise."
       The woman was a friend of Lisa's family from back home.  "I was so
 sorry to hear about your brother," Mrs. Nelson said softly.
        "Such a terrible accident. But we can be thankful that he died
quickly.  He didn't suffer."  Lisa stared at the woman in shock.
      "Wh-hat," she finally stammered.  It couldn't be! Her brother?
Dead?  The woman quickly saw that Lisa did not know about the accident. 
She told the girl the sad story of the speeding car, the rush to the
hospital, the doctors working over Brent. But all they could do was not
enough to save him.
      Lisa returned home that afternoon.                                 
                  ********
      Now she found herself in her room thinking about her brother as she
 held the small box that held some of her memories of him. Sadly, she
opened the box and peered inside. It was as she remembered, except 
for one item--Brent's chart. It was not there. In its place, at the 
bottom of the box, was an envelope. Her hands shook as she tore it open
and removed a letter.
        The first page read:
         Dear Lisa,
    It was you who kept count, not me.
        But if you're stubborn enough to keep
      count, use the new chart I've made for you.
      Love,
         Brent
  Lisa turned to the second page where she found a chart just like 
the one she had made as a child, but on this one the lines were drawn in
perfect precision. And unlike the chart she had kept, there was but one 
check mark in the upper left- hand corner. Written in red felt tip pen 
over the entire page were the words: "Number 491.  Forgiven, forever."
 ^*^*^*^*Open thine eyes, there are angels amongst you.^^*^*^*^*
 "God grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know
the difference."
          *^*^*^*^*Realize love before it leaves you.^*^*^*^*^*^*
>




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------------------------------

Date: Sat, 16 Jan 1999 16:22:50 -0500
From: "Kevin Pease" <kbpease@boston.crosswinds.net>
Subject: Re: ET: OMG...am I talking about the tommy thing, too?

>Respectable is not detemined by the clothes you wear, but by the way you
>carry yourself. I wear baggy jeans, flannel shirts, and my favorite
>shoes are my combat boots. I belive that designer labels are simply
>status signs and are actually somewhat discriminative. I don't know your
>ful opinion, I'm not trying to change your veiw, I am simply stating
>that I belive respectability is not something that is necesarily
>determined by clothes.

    I've got to sort of agree / sort of disagree on this one.  (Please, keep
in mind that I'm also talking as someone who's working a full time job, and
no longer in school... )

    I will agree with Maggie's last sentence up there - respectability isn't
something that is necessarily determined by clothes... I'd even say that
respectability is something that's completely independent of the clothing
you wear.  Respectability is something that comes from attitude, not from
clothing.  If you act respectable, you are respectable... I've known people
who buy exclusively from Abercrombie & Fitch and Tommy Hilfiger, who are (to
put it plainly), complete asses - 'respectable' would be the last adjective
I would ever pick to describe them.  By the same token, I know people who
like to dress like Marilyn Manson (not a slam against him, just that his
mode of dress is rather... unique...  :), who are completely respectable,
intelligent, good people.  The clothes don't determine the respectability.

    Unfortunately, not everybody thinks that way, and, at least in the
working world, there *are* certain standards of "respectable" dress.  Of
course, it varies completely from job to job - I work as a software
engineer... I can roll into work unshaven, wearing shorts, sandals, and a
t-shirt during the summer (not all the time... but now and then I can get
away with it... :)... but walk next door to the sales & marketing
department, and they're dressed in suits (casual for them is ONLY a shirt
and a tie) year-round.  I don't deal with customers directly, so I'm not
expected to dress up like the sales & marketing folks.  However, if I was to
come in some time, (and this is for example only... I wouldn't even know
where to BUY these things, but I have seen them on people... :)  wearing
tight leather pants, a fishnet shirt, and combat boots, my hair dyed jet
black & grown out long... I'd raise more than a few managerial eyebrows, and
probably one of them would say..."Um... could you tone it down please?"
That's not to say that there's not jobs where you COULD show up to work like
that, but I think there's probably more jobs that you couldn't do that at.
They don't expect you to buy all your clothing at Tommy or Abercrombie...
but by the same token, corporate folks generally don't want employees
dressing like they just stepped out of a rock video.  :)

    I (like to) think I'm more or less respectable, and I get by most of the
time with jeans, t-shirts, polo shirts, and sneakers...  occasionally
dockers & a dressier shirt & a better pair of shoes, but very little of my
wardrobe is designer label.  That stuff's too damned expensive, and the
quality and durability is NOT worth doubling (or more than doubling) the
price.  My feeling is, for the price that designer labels ask for clothes,
the things better damned well be made of Kevlar, and completely bullet
proof.  :)

    The point is this:  respectability isn't based on a designer label.
But, sometimes, you have to present a respectable image, and that *can* be
hard to do when you're dressed like Marilyn Manson.  It's not impossible,
but it is harder... people like to categorize you by what they see - if they
see a "punk rock-star wannabe", they're going to assume that you're a punk
rock-star wannabe, and you've got to overcome that negative first impression
as well as show them that you're respectable...  like I said, it's not
impossible, but it does tend to make things more difficult.

    Kevin

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End of eda-thoughts-digest V2 #16
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