Post by angel on Jun 8, 2010 16:32:25 GMT -5
ÁNGEL RUIZ RODRIGUEZ
Name: Ángel Ruiz Rodriguez
Nicknames: Mr. Rodriguez, Angel, Angie (If you dare)
Age: Thirty Seven
Date of Birth: January 29th, 1973
Orientation: Heterosexual
Nationality: Latin American—Mexico
Home Town: Acapulco de Juarez, Guerrero Mexico
Subject Taught:
Play by: Juan Esteban Aristizábal Vásquez
--- QUIRKY
If you want, blame it on the drugs, but they have very little to nothing to do with it. Ángel Rodriguez has always been the black sheep, ever since he was born. The strange habits exist in almost every person you meet, but they seem more prominent in this man. From wearing his watch with the dial on the inside of his wrist to organizing his paint alphabetically, all the way to sleeping with a silver dollar under his pillow on everyday but Thursday. But it’s not just the habits; it’s the strange workings of his mind. The different thought process that affects almost every artist. Often times he can’t understand some of his own thoughts, and seems lost in them, searching for an answer. For this reason he has a difficult time explaining exactly what he means. Alright. So maybe you can blame the slightly whacked-up head on the drugs. So what?
--- QUIET
He finds it easier to observe and create rather than put himself out there. He isn’t socially handicapped, per se, because he is more than capable of making conversation with other people—He just won’t start it. If it’s about art, then the term “quiet” and “reserved” doesn’t exactly fit him, mind you. He enjoys tranquility and silence most of the time because he fits in with it. He enjoys being lost in a quiet atmosphere because it enables him to think and create without interruption. Ángel feels that speaking out loud while he’s trying to think will destroy any and all thought processes he had occurring, leading to a state of confusion. Can be outgoing, but it’s a rare occasion.
--- CREATIVE
Isn’t it a given? Especially for someone that makes his living teaching art classes and painting the random scene that he finds beautiful. Is capable of finding inspiration in all sorts of places and things, which makes him a good observer. Devotes much of his time to finding inspiration and creating whatever comes to his mind. For this reason has little care in the world. Would not have considered teaching at all had he not had a dry-spell. He is capable of making a living by painting, which is very rare, but occasionally finds himself attached to one of his pieces for some strange reason. Doesn’t work with many people due to differences in opinion, and therefore struggles to keep his opinion inside his own head, even if it may offend someone he’s a good friend with. This vocalization has strained many a relationship in the past.
--- PEACEFUL
Can be what some consider a modern-day hippie. Despises conflict in many of its forms, unless it comes in the form of artistic difference and slight argument in a healthy manner. Seeks to absolve conflict whenever possible, and, ironically, hates hate. Tries his best to accept many people, but sometimes has issues with that. Can sometimes prejudge, but won’t vocalize this aspect of anything due to the fact it would be extremely hypocritical. Believes that somewhere there is a place where Religious differences, racial ethnicities, and other divides have disappeared, but knows it is unable to be found while living.
LIKES:
Classical Music—A never-ending supply of inspiration
Spanish—His native tongue is often utilized more than his secondary language
Talking to himself—Sometimes it makes his thoughts clearer and greater understood
Art Museums—You can go a million times and always find something new
The Guitar—A form of art and expression when painting muses run low
Day Dreaming—Paint a picture with your mind, anyone?
Disarray—For some reason everything can be found with ease
Nature—It’s one of those given forms of inspiration
Sharing his passion with others—Self explanatory?
Casual Sex—Oh, come on. Who doesn’t?
Drugs—Believe it or not, he does them…. You believe it.[/ul]
DISLIKES:
Conformity—Nobody wants a clone of themselves
War—Peace is not a thing of the past
Politics—The lying people that think they’re good for this country
Birds—They’re obnoxious and loud when you don’t want them to be
His Parents—At the moment, at least… Probably for a little while longer.
Texting—It’s just one of those things…
Religious Divides—Why can’t everyone just get along? I mean really…
Time—He realizes he’s getting older and losing time… but sometimes it drags on slowly
Sports—He’s just never found an interest in them[/ul]
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Born in a small town just outside of Acapulco de Juarez in the state of Guerrero, Mexico to Juan Rodriguez and his wife Roberta Ramirez, Ángel Ruiz Rodriguez was the third child. He had two elder siblings, a boy and a girl, ages seven and five respectively. David, the elder brother, was just that: The caring sibling that he ought to have been in a close-knit family.
Juan Rodriguez’s job was stable enough to make a good living, and Roberta helped along the way with a small vegetable garden, some of which she sold at a local market. Often times she took her children with her to get a sense of life. This market was alive with color and activity: An awakening for a child of only five at the time of his first trip there. It was here that the colors stuck on the mind of a child; the beginning of a long road of inspiration and failure.
He grew up a normal life: When he was three his younger sister was born; when he was seven his parents got a new dog because the old one had died. A normal child as far as he was concerned. When he got into the equivalent of high school, however, he found his true passion, inspired by the old trips to the bustling market. Color was his best friend, and he found how best to utilize it: Painting. High School art club led to expression through painting, painting and expression lead to a lack of muse, the lack of muse led to drugs. Nothing all that hardcore. It started off simple. A little marijuana every now and then to help the muse. After that he took to hallucinogenic drugs and flat lined there. His parents? Never noticed. He distanced himself from them as often as he could, sticking away from home whenever he could.
He did love them, of course, but it was because of that love that he didn’t want them to see what exactly he’d turned into. They took his art for face value, and never considered what it took to make the abstract and strange pieces. When they did find out, however, he stuck away from drugs and turned towards basic inspiration once more: Landscapes and people. A slightly realistic aspect of life with minor changes in color whenever he decided he felt like it.
Eventually he grew apart from his family, and when he occasionally did drugs, they’d know about it. They got sick of it, and he got sick of the nagging. He had to make a living somehow. So he got an art degree. A creative license to do whatever the hell he wanted. So he thought, at least. His parents, not liking this career choice, were now estranged to him, and he left for the United States, where he found citizenship in Florida at the age of 27. He figured he’d stay in Florida for quite some time, and while searching for a house he stumbled on a small real estate building. It was here he met Kathy. Her broken Spanish and his broken English. Well… It was a match not made in heaven. At least after four or five months, that is. At first it was smooth sailing. Then it all went to hell. She left, and he struggled as a starving artist until he finally hit a patch of success.
He started towards his teaching degree after the small failure scare, and found himself choosing between two liberal arts colleges. Two places to inspire others. When he was 31 he found himself in Philadelphia, just starting his teaching career.
Why Emerson?
It’s not like he wanted to stalk his ex or anything. Really. He didn’t even know she was here. It was the mere attraction of Philadelphia that brought him to this exact school—After debating between two, that is. Emerson just… had what he wanted: A place away from Mexico, in the middle of American history, and a city full of interesting people and inspiration. Who could resist?
Falling into a half-silence as he watched the replay of the game-winning goal on the farthest television--pretending, of course, to be interested in it (which he wasn't in the slightest)--Jack barely glanced at Lyle, who seemed for a moment completely lost in thought (if he had any left, that is). He actually looked somewhat lost in the conversation, as though he couldn't keep up with what was going on. Truth be told he didn't really mind. The guy probably wouldn't even remember his name the next day, let alone whatever they spoke about--not that they were talking much in the first place. He didn't smile. Not being remembered wasn't exactly pleasing, especially when the forgetting party was as good looking as this here sniper sitting next to him. Trying to ignore that possibility, Jack finished his drink and set it aside, not wanting another if he was going to be driving home. He didn't particularly want to be known as the senator that killed himself driving drunk. At that moment he hoped Lyle knew when he was going to stop consuming, but he didn't seem to want to or realize how far off he was headed. "Bad day or somethin'? Know I don't have a right to ask, but..." He really didn't have a 'but', or at least he couldn't think of one after he said it. He just let the sentence drop in mid air, hoping the other man would be able to make something of it. He settled into drinking his water while he waited.
Finishing that he leaned his forearms on the bar and shifted in his seat, having grown far too accustomed to the one position he had been sitting in, and starting to grow sore from it. Generally he only sat this long at Senate meetings, and even then the chairs were far more comfortable than the bar stool he was currently forced to occupy. He watched Lyle look around, almost like one of those spies you see in the movies. Watching everyone and registering their faces in his mind (even if he'd be soon to forget them by the next morning) and generally assigning details to them as if he were working. Hell, maybe the guy was working, and his job was to get completely smashed. Maybe he was working undercover detail by then as a drunk customer of a bar; A distraction of some sorts. Jack's smile was small but present at the though of being paid to get wasted away.Plus he could manage to concoct several scenarios where distractions could be very.... distracting to everyone else. Bar Fights are so last century.
"I'm sure you're quite capable of getting what you want, kid." He had to smile, now at the confused state the man's mind was in. "Asked if you've ever actually had to. Or are you just there for backup in case the guys up front fuck things up? I hear they're good at that sometimes." He doubted that statement as it had come from someone who was quite against the job that the secret services did--one of those guys that was still hung about the John Kennedy assassination in '63. Jack supposed the guy had a very valid point, but he also had a very biased point, considering he often worked rather closely with the man at times (which would constitute absolute and unmitigated Democratic support. Which meant bias.) "Don't think I could do it. Kill someone. Wouldn't have the..." He contemplated the word 'ego', finding that it applied to the man, but probably wasn't the right word he was looking for at that exact time. "...guts to do it, if you know what I mean."
But he didn't dwell on that. His mind was more stuck on the fact that he was continuously called 'mate' by this strange Australian man--a very adorable man at that. It was almost... almost encouraging in a strange and twisted sense in the mind of a slightly buzzed homosexual. Even had he not been drunk, however, he would have been dwelling on the exact same thing. A term of friendship and endearment for lack of better term. Or one of hospitality and intrigue. It was something that ought be regarded as special... in the same slightly tipsy and gay state.
"I said you will, if you drive home in your state. Blatantly obvious you're far past drunk, if I may say so myself." He was surprised that the man had managed to stay on his bar stool as long as he had without falling completely over and into the ground. Maybe he wasn't as completely messed up as he seemed to be. "Don't recommend walking, either. God knows you might walk in front of a semi-truck driving sixty miles per hour..." He glanced woefully at Lyle, letting his gaze linger for a very brief moment before turning back to his new glass of water, which he began to nurse quietly. The new imaginative image wasn't his favorite, but he downplayed it. "Waste of good liquor." With a half-grin he glanced briefly around the room, wishing still that the noise was far less than it was, though it bothered him little and a lot at the same time. "Wouldn't suggest leaving it here, either. Got a friend that can come and get it?" If worse came to worse, well... He wasn't sure about that. He doubted the amount of alcohol in his system made him sober, but at the same time he didn't consider himself drunk enough to not drive. "If not... my car's for sure less expensive." He didn't bother mentioning that he couldn't give two thoughts about what happened to his car--or any car for that matter. If it was up to him horses would still be the main method of transportation. Less pollution, more fun and exercise. Getting a horse to move at the speed you wanted it to (and controlling it for that matter) was far more work than pressing down a gas pedal and flicking your cruise control on. More entertaining at times, too, especially if you were watching someone attempt it for the first or second time. Hello, America's funniest home videos.
He placed his car keys on the counter top, almost to make sure he still had them and was capable of keeping an eye on them. The main key, which was obviously a car key, was to one of the less-expensive American Ford cars. Out of a job yet? Keep buying foreign. He almost wanted to get that bumper sticker, but felt that it would be a bad display of public relations. So he just smiled whenever he saw one.
Turning his attention back to Lyle when the man actually turned to face him, Jack arched an eyebrow slightly, amused by the fact that the previously very anti-social seeming man actually looked like he was interested in conversation by now. At least, that's how he appeared. But he was also not in the right state of mind, which could account for the sudden change in attitude as the alcohol was absorbed. But now that he could actually see the rest of the man's face, he was far more interested in that than how the alcohol affected the human brain. Who would pass up the chance to admire as... handsome a human being? It was almost far too perfect. He was almost far too perfect. Perhaps he was solely a hallucination. Maybe Jack was turning into a schizophrenic. He sure to hell hoped that this was all far more real than he was imagining. Reality was good when it looked so... hot.
Jack found himself almost mystified by the man's presence... by his... everything, for want of something better to blame the mesmerization on. He almost forgot to speak... In fact he didn't speak for a good two or three minutes. He just watched. But then he chuckled, hoping that the man wouldn't notice his... staring. "Me? Married? Probably not ever..." For the moment he avoided mentioning the fact that it wasn't yet legal to marry someone with the same parts as you. "I'll assume you're single, since you're not wearing a wedding band. Or divorced... or you have a very dangerous job, which is highly likely." He paused for a brief moment. "So which is it, my friend? Married or single?"
[/size][/center][/justify]Hi, I'm Kennedy and I'm 16 years old. I'm strange, yet loveable. This is my first application. I found Failure's Not Flattering from Squiddy.
