Ok Ok Ok, some sneak peaks.

Concept, Designer, Web Developer

Concept, Designer, Web Developer

Concept, Designer, Web Developer

Coming Soon.

Scouting the Museum of Science

A Butterfly fell in love with me/my bag. Watched Chickens hatch. Had an awesome time with Ms. Scout.

This South American Beauty would not get off my bag for about 15 minutes. It was amazing. (also about 3 hours later I realized the unintentional humour in the previous sentence)

My Museum Visit on Flickr.

To a Tee.

I consider myself a passionate human being. To a flaw. I sometimes get mad at myself for how old fashioned I can come across. It’s been something that has definitely caused me a boatload of strife in my life. But, I also am pretty confident that it has earned me the loyalty of many people.  One thing I have never been able to figure out is where I draw the line between loyalty to my friends and just plain stubbornness. I’ve often times found myself good friends with a significant other  of one of my close friends. More often then not I end up serving the role of confidant, or elder statesmen, due to my extra years on the planet. This is great, both sides come to me for advice, and I rely on my extensive resume of failed relationships to help guide them clear of some of the obvious pitfalls. Everything is hunky-dory. Until the breakup happens. Then what? An old fashioned man inside me says, that I cannot continue to hold the same bond with the significant other (SO), for fear of hurting the original friends (OF) feelings. It’s stupid, I know, but I would never want to say to the OF that I can’t hang out because I have plans with the SO. And to further compound things, I tend to become a tad bit cold and distant with the SO, so as to prove where my allegiance lies. It’s stupid, I know. But It’s like I’m stuck in the “old” era of chivalry and stuff.

So I resolve to attempt to rid myself of some of these silly notions, but my only concern is where to do toe the line? Or do I even have to? I enjoy knowing that everyone knows that I’ll go to bat for them when needed. I will add more as suggestions come in.

Excerpt #2

September 1997
It was like clockwork.

Driving down Route 93, a drive I’ve made 300 times in the last 20 years. But this one was the one that I will never forget. This one was the biggest. I got into my brother’s red BMW 528, a child, with potential. I got in and sat next to the towering figures of my life. My brother Mike, who taught me everything I ever learned about life in America. A self made man who had recently embarked on a new quest of his own, leaving behind an accolade filled job creating missiles that defended our country, and from scratch  entering the private sector for a fortune 500 company, in order to provide every whim and wish for his wonderful new family. My oldest brother George, another self made man (notice the pattern) who had created a dream life for his son and wife and was in town to take care of Dad, and see his little bro off to school. And of course, Dad. It’s fitting I write this on Father’s Day 2009, and without going into much detail, I know everyone around me in my life is well aware that this will be his last Father’s Day. Not that it matters one bit, but I’m ok with this. I am here to reflect on the past whilst plunging towards the future. This does sometimes leave me susceptible to the foils of the present, but it’s a lifestyle that though presently has left me alone, in some sense, will never leave my soul nothing short but proud to be one of my Father’s sons.

But I digress.
This ride was one that I will never forget. This was the off to college drive.  I hadn’t slept a full wink in weeks, and the horizon of adulthood that approached was so tantalizing and real that I wouldn’t believe it until I was there. In Boston. Where I belonged. In Boston, where I would become someone. Where I would make myself. I braced myself for the real world, for the chance to take all that I had learned from these men, these gods before me. Apply all their principles and one day return to make them proud.

Storrow Drive, September 7th, 1997.
The winding beauty of Storrow stops at nothing short of taking your breath away as you cradle the birth of the country on your left, with the splendor of the esplanade on your right. With the architecture of Cambridge beckoning across the Charles, through  a myriad of sailboats and joggers. As we drove by, my heart thumped along, and my grin became wider and wider.

6 Arlington St, Boston Ma.
We pulled up. The time was here. I jumped out of the car, and approached the energetic Orientation staff dressed in faux blue army fatigue print shirts with the slogan du jour “New Beginnings” or “Welcome to your future”. I told them my name, and within a few minutes I had keys and a folder of paperwork. I returned to the curb, grabbed my trash bags full of clothes and  college stuff. And approached the car. The three wise men sat, looking at me. Smiling. I felt instantly older. Promoted from apprentice to squire. The sat silently, admiring the product of years of lessons, punishment, tough love and inspiration. I waited with bated breath for the magical departing words of wisdom. My father went first. “So here you are. Remember- everything you do is what you make of it. Just make sure you make the best of it, and never forget, we are always here for you” A hug. For a man who has never said I love you, these were the greatest words ever bestowed upon my 17 year old ears. Then George. “You did it little bro. Go show Boston and the rest of the world what it means to be a Foglia” A hug, and a wad of cash deposited into my palm. I sat there, with 100 dollars, my entire capital for a new life. Then Mike. The man who was on par with a Father Figure for most of my life. The man who filled out all my forms in elementary and middle school. The man who went to all the PTA meetings, took me to Boy Scouts, football, basketball. Camping, Disney World, Canada, Six Flags ect ect… His words? “Three words. Fuck. A. Lot.”

Typical. I beamed with enthusiastic, slightly embarrassed virgin ears.

And with that they left. And with that they took the child who had been with them for 17 years with them. With that they moved on. Each to raise their own families. I was on my own and there was no other alternative. And this was the was both parties wanted it. And for that I am so very proud.

Thank you Fathers. Thank you for making me a man in 45 minutes. Thank you for teaching me that nothing is impossible. Thank you for showing me that even though my life has restarted at the age of 29, I can still do this. Here I am again, on that curb. With but a small wad of cash as my entire capital. With all your words of wisdom ringing truer then ever in my ears. I will never forget you. I will make you proud. Even though you say you already are, I know what I need to do. My first semester of new life is about to begin.

Typical Carlos.

Excerpt #1

October 1996.

It was like clockwork.

I would race down to the payphone in the lobby of my catholic high school, deposit a dime and call my father’s house. Odds were my stepmother would answer and“Anything?” would be the first thing out of my mouth. “Nope” would be her dry response. This was the 5 year span that I thought of her as the devil, so always took her terseness personal. (taking things personal is something that I have perfected) I would do this everyday, around 12:30, right after the mailman had visited my house.  And it wasn’t until the end of October that I heard “Actually, yes, an envelope form Emerson College arrived” , My dad said in what I was to find out later was pride filled voice. “What?!, is it big? Small? Thick?” I blurted out. “ It’s bigger than a regular…” “CAN YOU BRING IT TO SCHOOL!? PLEASE!?” “Sure, I’ll bring it by the lobby in about 30 minutes”.

Always there. I learned that from my father.
Sure enough I ran down to the lobby and he was there he handed me the envelope and I ripped it open.
“Dear Mr. Foglia,
It is with great pleasure that we have accepted you into Emerson College for the Class of 2001, yadadada…”
I did it. I had done it. I had done what no one else in my family had ever done. I had applied to a private college and gained admission. I was the king of the world, for that brief moment, no one could take that way from me. I looked at my father, he was doing the whole macho smile, I hugged him and said thank you, and I had to run to my next class. Beaming I blurted out my acceptance to my friends and teachers, who were almost as excited as me. It still ranks as one of the greatest moments of my life.

I had a different cpu back then. I remember the day I was accepted into private catholic high school. My dad and brother congratulated me. This was followed by a query as to how I expected to pay 7 thousand dollars a year. I said I would. I was 14. I did. It was the only option. Where did that drive go?
Emerson was more then 7k a year, in fact even though it pales in comparison to tuition and board nowadays, it was still a little less than 30 thousand a year. No problem said 17 year old Carlos. I had my brother drop me off  in downtown Boston one early march morning, with nothing more than 20 dollars, a backpack, my acceptance letter and the drive that would have made anyone proud.  I approached 180 Tremont street, then the home of Emerson’s Financial Student Services office. I pressed the elevator button and headed to the 10th floor. When I got out, I stood in line until it was my turn. And when a lovely woman by the name of Stacey called me over, I approached the counter and said “Hi, My name is Carlos, and I am going to be a freshman next year. I need to pay for college on my own, so where do I begin?” Needless to say, her mouth dropped, and she was speechless.  Needless to say, 3 hours later I had paid for college, or in translation, signed my life away, via loans, grants and the occasional scholarship. I met up with my brother at his office, and nonchalantly mentioned that college “was all set”. Typical Carlos.

Why Emerson? When I was a child I was convinced that I wanted to be a doctor, until I realized I hated the sight of blood. It wasn’t until watching TV that I realized that I enjoyed the people playing the doctors, and that I would most likely not have to come into contact with real blood by doing this acting thing. Perfect! Why Acting and Musical Theatre? At Emerson and I am assuming mostly everywhere, Actors won’t admit their love with Musical Theatre, as Musical Theatre folk (we called them muffins) are very…flamboyant, loud, colorful, and always are singing a few bars of the inspirational tony nominated social commentary laden musical du jour. I was a muffin. Correction, I was a temporary muffin because of 2 very different pieces of Musical Theatre.

I went to see phantom of the opera with my cousin gus when I was 15. Untill then I didn’t know what it was like to be so moved by something so tangible and palpable yet so abstract and unreal. I was convinced I was the next Michael Crawford. Not to mention when I turned 16,  a new musical came along that would forever change my life. Before RENT, I wanted to study acting, and enjoyed the occasional Lloyd Webber piece, or humming a bit from Les Miserable. After RENT, my catalog increased by 30 fold, and I had every era of Musical Theatre dancing through my head at all times. From South Pacific to Hair, from Into the Woods to Pippin. IF it was popular and on Broadway at anytime in the last 50 years, chances are I had a CD or the libretto.

Sick? I know. But remember that Foglia drive? Yea this was a precursor to my personality. Typical Carlos.

The incredible slowly shrinking man.