Post by lalo on Jan 19, 2009 4:17:55 GMT 10
[/size]`lalo clemente ramón !!!
eccentric, kleptomaniac, passionate
Name: Eduardo "Lalo" Clemente Ramón
Nickname(s): Lalo is, technically, a nickname in itself -- but most people think it's his real name. Lali, Lala, and whatever else can be constructed out of his rather simplistic name have probably been used to reference him before.
Major: Visual Art
Age: Eighteen
Grade: Freshman
Birthdate: October 16th, 1989
Orientation: Pansexual
Location: Miami, Florida
`Appearance ,,
Lalo is not conventionally handsome. His limbs are too long, his facial expressions completely unrefined, his ears stick out, and his hair is perpetually disheveled. However, he prefers to think of it as having character, rather than being just plain peculiar looking. His heritage is a conglomerate of French, Spanish, and native Cuban, and though he has never set foot east of Hispaniola, Lalo looks more European than anything else. His hair is dark and straight, and he cuts it himself, resulting in a graciously fashionable unkempt style that he does nothing to perpetuate aside from neglecting to pay much attention to his hair. His eyes are blue, and somewhat narrow, perhaps resulting from his small portion of Native American background. Very pronounced cheekbones and eyebrows complete Lalo's face, with the addition of his comically disproportionate ears.
Standing at around six feet, two inches tall and only weighing in at 142 pounds; there is a reason that they called Lalo "larguirucho" in primary school, where he towered over his peers from a young age. He is lanky and uncoordinated when not playing soccer, because his limbs are simply that disproportionate. He is only subtly muscular; he runs well and plays soccer, but prefers painting to working out. Lalo has a relatively vague sense of fashion -- if it looks good, wear it. He likes the idea of being fashionable, but doesn't personally strive to obtain it. He shops mostly at thrift stores, and can usually be found wearing clothes worth no more than a combined $10.
Lalo is not conventionally handsome. His limbs are too long, his facial expressions completely unrefined, his ears stick out, and his hair is perpetually disheveled. However, he prefers to think of it as having character, rather than being just plain peculiar looking. His heritage is a conglomerate of French, Spanish, and native Cuban, and though he has never set foot east of Hispaniola, Lalo looks more European than anything else. His hair is dark and straight, and he cuts it himself, resulting in a graciously fashionable unkempt style that he does nothing to perpetuate aside from neglecting to pay much attention to his hair. His eyes are blue, and somewhat narrow, perhaps resulting from his small portion of Native American background. Very pronounced cheekbones and eyebrows complete Lalo's face, with the addition of his comically disproportionate ears.
Standing at around six feet, two inches tall and only weighing in at 142 pounds; there is a reason that they called Lalo "larguirucho" in primary school, where he towered over his peers from a young age. He is lanky and uncoordinated when not playing soccer, because his limbs are simply that disproportionate. He is only subtly muscular; he runs well and plays soccer, but prefers painting to working out. Lalo has a relatively vague sense of fashion -- if it looks good, wear it. He likes the idea of being fashionable, but doesn't personally strive to obtain it. He shops mostly at thrift stores, and can usually be found wearing clothes worth no more than a combined $10.
Best Feature: "My face. I dunno. I'm pretty damn good-looking all-around, it's difficult to choose just one thing. I'm just kidding, my eyes are definitely the best. None of my relatives have blue eyes, so it's unique, or something."
Worst Feature: "My ears! They are monstrous!"[/size]
`Personality ,,
eccentric
The most apt method of describing Lalo's personality would be through use of a single word -- "eccentric". He is loud and opinionated, thoughtful and stubborn, playful and conspicuous. He is very much alive, and generally disapproves of anyone who neglects their privilege of sharing his enthusiasm and vigor for all things mundane. One thing that is clear to anyone who knows Lalo, however, is that he does not share the genius characteristic that is common to many people with a similar demeanor. Lalo has never done well in school, and only barely graduated high school with the bare minimum requirements. He reads poorly, and has a good memory only for useless trivia. One thing that allows him to get past this ineptitude for all things academic is his persistence -- Lalo is not the type to even be aware of the meaning of the phrase "give up". He has peculiar interests, like his collection of non-fiction books that he's never read thoroughly and setting out to learn how to do something only to never think of it again once he's mastered it (cutting hair, playing chess, identifying constellations...). Lalo literally loses sleep over his art. If he has an idea, he needs to act on it before he can move on. There is not a subdued or shy bone in Lalo's body.
kleptomaniac
Lalo grew up shoplifting to keep his family eating and clothed, and whether it is related or not, he is now a diagnosed kleptomaniac. This is a great source of shame for Lalo -- while he has only been caught stealing once or twice in his life (and he steals every day; he has plenty of practice being inconspicuous), he generally does not want to take things from others. He steals useless trinkets and unnecessary items from stores and friends, which he hoards in drawers in his apartment. He has no intention of ever doing anything with these things, and his theft is never malicious -- he simply cannot physically help himself. It would probably be easier on his mind to tell his friends about this problem, but he is too embarrassed, and so he goes on stealing their pens and forks and things of that nature, with none of them ever the wiser.
passionate
Lalo has a very nurturing side to him. He adores people, and would love to talk at length with every single person he comes across in his daily life, if only there were more hours in the day. He would also be willing to give away his possessions if someone else were in greater need, and he has in fact done this, as a child in Miami where he often came across other kids at school whose families were even poorer than his own. He is something of a bleeding-heart liberal, which can be good and bad for him -- he is very in touch with politics and all things charitable, but he does sometimes get too consumed in these sorts of causes, and it is easy for him to forget that he has always been something of a charity case, himself. Lalo is a vegan, and a human-rights activist, with particular interest in Latin American human rights abuses. He is a communist sympathizer, but would agree with everyone else in that the Cuban government is corrupt. Despite being somewhat caught up in deep ideas and movements, Lalo is very capable of being completely carefree. He takes mood stabilizers to help with his kleptomania, and these can make him significantly more subdued and calm.
eccentric
The most apt method of describing Lalo's personality would be through use of a single word -- "eccentric". He is loud and opinionated, thoughtful and stubborn, playful and conspicuous. He is very much alive, and generally disapproves of anyone who neglects their privilege of sharing his enthusiasm and vigor for all things mundane. One thing that is clear to anyone who knows Lalo, however, is that he does not share the genius characteristic that is common to many people with a similar demeanor. Lalo has never done well in school, and only barely graduated high school with the bare minimum requirements. He reads poorly, and has a good memory only for useless trivia. One thing that allows him to get past this ineptitude for all things academic is his persistence -- Lalo is not the type to even be aware of the meaning of the phrase "give up". He has peculiar interests, like his collection of non-fiction books that he's never read thoroughly and setting out to learn how to do something only to never think of it again once he's mastered it (cutting hair, playing chess, identifying constellations...). Lalo literally loses sleep over his art. If he has an idea, he needs to act on it before he can move on. There is not a subdued or shy bone in Lalo's body.
kleptomaniac
Lalo grew up shoplifting to keep his family eating and clothed, and whether it is related or not, he is now a diagnosed kleptomaniac. This is a great source of shame for Lalo -- while he has only been caught stealing once or twice in his life (and he steals every day; he has plenty of practice being inconspicuous), he generally does not want to take things from others. He steals useless trinkets and unnecessary items from stores and friends, which he hoards in drawers in his apartment. He has no intention of ever doing anything with these things, and his theft is never malicious -- he simply cannot physically help himself. It would probably be easier on his mind to tell his friends about this problem, but he is too embarrassed, and so he goes on stealing their pens and forks and things of that nature, with none of them ever the wiser.
passionate
Lalo has a very nurturing side to him. He adores people, and would love to talk at length with every single person he comes across in his daily life, if only there were more hours in the day. He would also be willing to give away his possessions if someone else were in greater need, and he has in fact done this, as a child in Miami where he often came across other kids at school whose families were even poorer than his own. He is something of a bleeding-heart liberal, which can be good and bad for him -- he is very in touch with politics and all things charitable, but he does sometimes get too consumed in these sorts of causes, and it is easy for him to forget that he has always been something of a charity case, himself. Lalo is a vegan, and a human-rights activist, with particular interest in Latin American human rights abuses. He is a communist sympathizer, but would agree with everyone else in that the Cuban government is corrupt. Despite being somewhat caught up in deep ideas and movements, Lalo is very capable of being completely carefree. He takes mood stabilizers to help with his kleptomania, and these can make him significantly more subdued and calm.
Likes: coffee, sleeping, drawing, music, girls, boys, miami, photography, thunderstorms, movies, literature, soccer, painting, thrift stores, driving fast, project runway, being cold, dancing, gin and tonics, reading, encyclopedias, sunsets, most colours, animals, cigarettes, tea, liberalism, environmentalists, vegans, organization.
Dislikes: disorganization, being alone, being cold, being quiet, the animal agriculture industry, the beach, people who try too hard, ignorance, school, being wrong, conservative political ideologies, swimming, when he is compelled to steal things that he doesn't even want.
Positive Traits: excellent at drawing, can be witty and funny, caring toward other people, very neat, and absolutely determined in everything he does.
Negative Traits: kleptomania, can be too loud, never subtle, obsessive-compulsive, and cares sometimes too much about his causes.
Greatest Ambition: to become a world-renowned artist, of course.
Greatest Fear: swimming[/size]
`History ,,
Lalo Clemente Ramón was born in Maisí, Cuba on October 16th, 1989. He was the second child born to his parents, Marieugenia and Eduardo Ramón, the first being his elder sister, Sylvia, who was four when he was born. Lalo's legal first name was, and is "Eduardo", named for his father -- he has been called Lalo as a nickname his entire life to differentiate him from his father, and while he writes "Eduardo" on official things, he doesn't even think of himself as an Eduardo at all, and he probably wouldn't even think to respond to the name if he was to be referred to as such. Maisí, which is situated very far east on the island, is quite near Haiti. Lalo's ancestors are a mix of Spanish and French; his paternal grandmother was full-blooded French, and his grandfather's ancestors have lived in Cuba for such a long time that he couldn't ever know where they originated. Lalo's mother's grandparents came from Spain. His European heritage is to be owed credit for his fair complexion; though amongst his siblings there is much variety in the colours of their skin, eyes, and hair.
Santiago, Lalo's brother, was born just one year after Lalo. Life in Maisí was tough -- hurricanes would constantly obliterate their town, but the Ramón family had no money to move further west. The Ramón children were brought up under the principle that you must take what you could manage to take, or else you might not get another chance. Lalo would often be the one who would steal to provide for his family, he was inconspicuous and charming, and very good at being sneaky. He and Santiago would steal food from farmers' fields, take whatever they needed from stores and neighbours and strangers' destroyed houses after storms. Still, they often went hungry, and when another brother was born when Lalo was ten, their parents decided that it would be best for them to leave Cuba. They feared for their kids' health, as prolonged malnutrition was beginning to take its toll on them all, especially baby Rico. A boat was pieced together from aluminum and wood, and the six-member family headed northwest to Florida under the cover of night.
The boat was crudely built, and did not hold up. Miles from Florida's coast, it took on water, and fell apart. Clinging to the wreckage, the family stuck close together and braved more than twenty-four hours. Baby Rico was placed atop a floating piece of wood, but everyone else was too heavy. Finally, ten year-old Santiago went under. Lalo dove to retrieve him, but he was unconscious and no one had the strength left to hold him up well enough to keep his head above the water. Eventually, he stopped breathing, and it was accepted that he must be let go. This was done without a word. They couldn't afford to expend energy through grief, and about four hours later, a coast guard boat picked up the exhausted family. They were brought to Florida, but only for a few hours. Then, they were put on another boat, and sent back to Cuba. Lalo's father was imprisoned for his attempted escape, and the rest of the family went back home.
Within a few months, another opportunity arose -- this time from a neighbour, with a real boat. They made it to Florida, less two people, and were given a place to live by relatives in Little Havana. Lalo and his siblings started going to Miami's public schools, and while financially things were still not good, life was better. Lalo's mother worked cleaning houses, and the pay was terrible, but it was something. She still relied on Lalo to provide the essentials through illegal means, especially now without her husband's income to supplement hers, and he complied, never knowing anything different. Soon, he began to steal things he didn't even need. Things like paperweights from his teachers at school, clothes that wouldn't fit him, useless items that he kept carefully lined up in his bedroom closet and obsessively added to.
Lalo barely managed to graduate high school, but was accepted almost unquestioningly by the Washington University of the Arts for his achievements in, well, art. In Miami, he had earned himself an impressive reputation as a rare talent among the art community. Lalo is well aware that it wasn't all talent that got him in, though -- he is naturally charming, and the admissions interviewer didn't even notice when he pocketed his pen at the end of their meeting.
Lalo Clemente Ramón was born in Maisí, Cuba on October 16th, 1989. He was the second child born to his parents, Marieugenia and Eduardo Ramón, the first being his elder sister, Sylvia, who was four when he was born. Lalo's legal first name was, and is "Eduardo", named for his father -- he has been called Lalo as a nickname his entire life to differentiate him from his father, and while he writes "Eduardo" on official things, he doesn't even think of himself as an Eduardo at all, and he probably wouldn't even think to respond to the name if he was to be referred to as such. Maisí, which is situated very far east on the island, is quite near Haiti. Lalo's ancestors are a mix of Spanish and French; his paternal grandmother was full-blooded French, and his grandfather's ancestors have lived in Cuba for such a long time that he couldn't ever know where they originated. Lalo's mother's grandparents came from Spain. His European heritage is to be owed credit for his fair complexion; though amongst his siblings there is much variety in the colours of their skin, eyes, and hair.
Santiago, Lalo's brother, was born just one year after Lalo. Life in Maisí was tough -- hurricanes would constantly obliterate their town, but the Ramón family had no money to move further west. The Ramón children were brought up under the principle that you must take what you could manage to take, or else you might not get another chance. Lalo would often be the one who would steal to provide for his family, he was inconspicuous and charming, and very good at being sneaky. He and Santiago would steal food from farmers' fields, take whatever they needed from stores and neighbours and strangers' destroyed houses after storms. Still, they often went hungry, and when another brother was born when Lalo was ten, their parents decided that it would be best for them to leave Cuba. They feared for their kids' health, as prolonged malnutrition was beginning to take its toll on them all, especially baby Rico. A boat was pieced together from aluminum and wood, and the six-member family headed northwest to Florida under the cover of night.
The boat was crudely built, and did not hold up. Miles from Florida's coast, it took on water, and fell apart. Clinging to the wreckage, the family stuck close together and braved more than twenty-four hours. Baby Rico was placed atop a floating piece of wood, but everyone else was too heavy. Finally, ten year-old Santiago went under. Lalo dove to retrieve him, but he was unconscious and no one had the strength left to hold him up well enough to keep his head above the water. Eventually, he stopped breathing, and it was accepted that he must be let go. This was done without a word. They couldn't afford to expend energy through grief, and about four hours later, a coast guard boat picked up the exhausted family. They were brought to Florida, but only for a few hours. Then, they were put on another boat, and sent back to Cuba. Lalo's father was imprisoned for his attempted escape, and the rest of the family went back home.
Within a few months, another opportunity arose -- this time from a neighbour, with a real boat. They made it to Florida, less two people, and were given a place to live by relatives in Little Havana. Lalo and his siblings started going to Miami's public schools, and while financially things were still not good, life was better. Lalo's mother worked cleaning houses, and the pay was terrible, but it was something. She still relied on Lalo to provide the essentials through illegal means, especially now without her husband's income to supplement hers, and he complied, never knowing anything different. Soon, he began to steal things he didn't even need. Things like paperweights from his teachers at school, clothes that wouldn't fit him, useless items that he kept carefully lined up in his bedroom closet and obsessively added to.
Lalo barely managed to graduate high school, but was accepted almost unquestioningly by the Washington University of the Arts for his achievements in, well, art. In Miami, he had earned himself an impressive reputation as a rare talent among the art community. Lalo is well aware that it wasn't all talent that got him in, though -- he is naturally charming, and the admissions interviewer didn't even notice when he pocketed his pen at the end of their meeting.
Best Memory: Being accepted into college with a full scholarship. Lalo knew he was hopeless in high school, so he never expected an opportunity to come up for him to receive higher education, even in art -- some family friends own a garage in Little Havana, where Lalo worked since the age of fourteen, and so he had always known he was expected to become an auto mechanic -- he was good at it, even though he hated the work. Going to college was a way to divorce himself from those expectations, so he could do what it was that he loved.
Worst Memory: His family's first attempt at escape from Cuba, and the resulting death of his brother, Santiago, who was just a year younger than Lalo. Lalo has always felt guilty, as though he could have played a bigger role in helping to save his younger brother, even though logically he knows that there was nothing more he could have possibly done.
[/size]
`Writing Skill ,,
The old Volvo 66 had once been the epitome of cool. Actually, no it hadn't. It had, however, been cool in the context of Jack Turner's hometown -- a no-name place in northern Louisiana, where the cows outnumbered the people and there was no realistic poverty level, because if there was one, everyone would have been below it. Jack's 66 was the only car in his high school's student lot, and therefore, with nothing to compare it to, it had been considered quite cool.
But now, in the setting of the city, the old dilapidated car was almost comically out of place. Jack happened to love it, though, which is why he wouldn't get rid of it -- the boy was impossibly headstrong, and could never be convinced of doing anything he hadn't decided he wanted to do for himself. Also, well, it would be a miracle if he could afford anything better than the 66, which he hadn't even bought with cash -- rather, it had been given to him in exchange for his mechanical services. Jack's expertise in auto mechanics had also probably kept the pathetic old vehicle running for the past eight years in which he'd owned it.
The heat on the driver's side didn't work, however, and while it had never been a problem in the sweltering heat of Louisiana, things were quite different here. And so, poor Jack Turner was left shivering in his seat as he drove across town. He had never seen snow prior to his move across the country, and so this caliber of cold was completely foreign to the Southern boy. His numb fingers gripped the wheel tightly in front of him, occasionally lifting to turn the tuning dial to find a radio station that wasn't more than fifty percent static. The car had no CD player, of course, since it was built prior to the advent of such high-tech music storage devices.
The novelty that was snow caught Jack's eye quite often. He loved the stuff, and couldn't bear to take his eyes off of it out of the window to his left -- the windshield wipers that washed it away the instant a flake or several touched the glass did not provide adequate viewing for the boy. And so, as he turned his head slightly to look at a flurry of snowflakes, he caught sight of a girl sitting outside. Alone. And so, being the Southern gentleman that he was, there was no question in Jack's mind that he shouldn't just go ahead and approach her. Any big-city guy, they'd probably have more sense, or maybe just a better sense of self-importance -- he was, after all, cold as hell (rather, the opposite of), and could benefit from getting home and drinking some coffee. Or vodka, same warming effect, with twice the guilt.
But really, Jack Turner had no right to self-importance, and this he knew. So he pulled off to the curb, turned off the engine, pocketing his keys -- Jack might not have spent long in the big city, but he sure knew that things got stolen pretty quickly around here. He got out of the car, unable to keep his eyes from straying upward at the swiftly falling snow, that sprinkled his dark hair with white. He turned and walked toward the girl, trying to appear casual and nonthreatening -- he feared for her safety, so maybe he had reason to, and she would mistake him for somebody without good intentions in mind. Wouldn't want that.
Despite Jack's best efforts to blend in with the people in his new town, he simply did not. He walked (and talked) a good deal slower, kept a natural light tan in the winter, and was just all-around nice and concerned for other people. Plus, he was six-foot-four, but really, that would make him stand out anywhere, not just in a city like this one. He was twenty-three, and employed at an auto mechanic shop that paid minimum wage, but it paid the rent.
"Hey," Jack said, sitting beside Alex, but not too close -- just at the other end of the bench. He chose to sit because, well, he reasoned, otherwise he could appear pretty intimidating, at his height, even though his voice and face were kind. He had always been told he was exceptionally good-looking, Jack had -- and, well, in a small town like his, there wasn't much to compare him to. Unlike his Volvo, however, Jack actually was good-looking -- his hair was dark, a bit shaggy, but in the current style, his eyes stunningly light blue, a bit of stubble dusted across his cheeks and chin. He looked the part of the artist that he was, to say the least.
"I'm Jack Turner." It was a terrible name, one that would never get him recognised anywhere -- how much simpler could it get? It suited him, though, in a way, despite his dislike for the name. He offered a hand out to the stranger, to shake. His voice was softspoken, with a drawl that could almost be mistaken for a parody of itself, particularly with the way it contradicted the soft intelligence that practically radiated from his appearance. "Are you all right? You look awfully cold. Here," he stated, shrugging off the jacket he wore, and holding it out to the girl.
[/size][/center]The old Volvo 66 had once been the epitome of cool. Actually, no it hadn't. It had, however, been cool in the context of Jack Turner's hometown -- a no-name place in northern Louisiana, where the cows outnumbered the people and there was no realistic poverty level, because if there was one, everyone would have been below it. Jack's 66 was the only car in his high school's student lot, and therefore, with nothing to compare it to, it had been considered quite cool.
But now, in the setting of the city, the old dilapidated car was almost comically out of place. Jack happened to love it, though, which is why he wouldn't get rid of it -- the boy was impossibly headstrong, and could never be convinced of doing anything he hadn't decided he wanted to do for himself. Also, well, it would be a miracle if he could afford anything better than the 66, which he hadn't even bought with cash -- rather, it had been given to him in exchange for his mechanical services. Jack's expertise in auto mechanics had also probably kept the pathetic old vehicle running for the past eight years in which he'd owned it.
The heat on the driver's side didn't work, however, and while it had never been a problem in the sweltering heat of Louisiana, things were quite different here. And so, poor Jack Turner was left shivering in his seat as he drove across town. He had never seen snow prior to his move across the country, and so this caliber of cold was completely foreign to the Southern boy. His numb fingers gripped the wheel tightly in front of him, occasionally lifting to turn the tuning dial to find a radio station that wasn't more than fifty percent static. The car had no CD player, of course, since it was built prior to the advent of such high-tech music storage devices.
The novelty that was snow caught Jack's eye quite often. He loved the stuff, and couldn't bear to take his eyes off of it out of the window to his left -- the windshield wipers that washed it away the instant a flake or several touched the glass did not provide adequate viewing for the boy. And so, as he turned his head slightly to look at a flurry of snowflakes, he caught sight of a girl sitting outside. Alone. And so, being the Southern gentleman that he was, there was no question in Jack's mind that he shouldn't just go ahead and approach her. Any big-city guy, they'd probably have more sense, or maybe just a better sense of self-importance -- he was, after all, cold as hell (rather, the opposite of), and could benefit from getting home and drinking some coffee. Or vodka, same warming effect, with twice the guilt.
But really, Jack Turner had no right to self-importance, and this he knew. So he pulled off to the curb, turned off the engine, pocketing his keys -- Jack might not have spent long in the big city, but he sure knew that things got stolen pretty quickly around here. He got out of the car, unable to keep his eyes from straying upward at the swiftly falling snow, that sprinkled his dark hair with white. He turned and walked toward the girl, trying to appear casual and nonthreatening -- he feared for her safety, so maybe he had reason to, and she would mistake him for somebody without good intentions in mind. Wouldn't want that.
Despite Jack's best efforts to blend in with the people in his new town, he simply did not. He walked (and talked) a good deal slower, kept a natural light tan in the winter, and was just all-around nice and concerned for other people. Plus, he was six-foot-four, but really, that would make him stand out anywhere, not just in a city like this one. He was twenty-three, and employed at an auto mechanic shop that paid minimum wage, but it paid the rent.
"Hey," Jack said, sitting beside Alex, but not too close -- just at the other end of the bench. He chose to sit because, well, he reasoned, otherwise he could appear pretty intimidating, at his height, even though his voice and face were kind. He had always been told he was exceptionally good-looking, Jack had -- and, well, in a small town like his, there wasn't much to compare him to. Unlike his Volvo, however, Jack actually was good-looking -- his hair was dark, a bit shaggy, but in the current style, his eyes stunningly light blue, a bit of stubble dusted across his cheeks and chin. He looked the part of the artist that he was, to say the least.
"I'm Jack Turner." It was a terrible name, one that would never get him recognised anywhere -- how much simpler could it get? It suited him, though, in a way, despite his dislike for the name. He offered a hand out to the stranger, to shake. His voice was softspoken, with a drawl that could almost be mistaken for a parody of itself, particularly with the way it contradicted the soft intelligence that practically radiated from his appearance. "Are you all right? You look awfully cold. Here," he stated, shrugging off the jacket he wore, and holding it out to the girl.
`Behind The Character ,,
Name: olive
Age: sixteen
Role-playing experience: like 3 years
How you found us: neopets
[/size][/blockquote]