Lately, I feel distracted. Unable to work, unwilling to play (unless drunk) I have become willing to drift in the doldrums of American College Society. This would be easy and in fact sensible if my cohorts were Samuel Beckett and Andre the Giant but that is not the case. Though outgoing, though charismatic I find myself distancing my current incarnation from my peers. This is not a bad thing per se. You will not know my doldrums. Seeing me on a daily basis you will undoubtedly consider me a force of nature and spontaneity like a Hurricane or early Steve Martin. If you are the sort to consider such things I undoubtedly respect you. If not you are either Mike Tyson or someone I hardly care for.
I have intentionally cut myself off.
Working is too much to expect. Doing something badly is hardly worth the effort instead I wait until the day where I won't do anything subparly. Subparly is a good word.
I look back to the past and wonder if I, in fact, peaked too soon.
At 17, I directed a feature film against all odds. I made my own luck, defied the odds, and found success. It premiered before 800 people at a dollar theatre at five dollars per ticket. This was a good feeling.
At 18, I directed and wrote a play while almost killing my father in the process. At this window in time I didn't care. It was worth it. In a small nowhere town I was somebody. I stood out. I was the rare person who did things and took risks. In retrospect it was all petty bullshit. I would have been better served surfing for pussy and doing the best Cocaine Detroit had to offer. It isn't that I didn't care. I cared for this project like gangbusters or Ghostbusters. It is the simple fact that I didn't understand what made projects of such an ilk important or integral. I wrote it. I directed it. BUT I didn't own it. I should have been digging graves.
At 19, I got arrested, wrote a novel (unpublished it is called Killing McKluckey), and skipped town to travel Europe. This was again just short of an honest endeavor. Not enough whiskey, not enough fun, too much walking. I was in the hospital after almost dying from internal bleeding and for the first time I understood what I ought to be. I ought not to give a fuck. At this juncture I vowed never to care again. Life was fine. To borrow from Benini, Life was beautiful.
At 20, I was getting there.
At 21, I was me.
Since then I am happy, vigorous, but generally bored. Nothing is worth the effort. All is bound to be misunderstood or stricken from the record books.
I haven't looked back since. I'm satisfied, happy, but afraid to move on from the current version. It'll happen soon I'm sure of it. Beacons call to me like I'm a freighter. I have to be cognizant of their existence or else I'm bound to be like Steve Francis. Although prone to shoot and steal and block, I don't want to live on in the shadows of being ignored. I'm not ready to be a role player. Dell Curry, I ain't. I'd rather give twenty seconds of brilliance than ten years of servitude.
This is all setting the stage for the right luscious brunette to save me from myself.
I CAN'T WAIT!!!!
P.S. Eric Clapton and I are solemates.
ALSO
We have a new feature here at Hindenburg. It is called the List.
Here is the List...
Alcoholic Beverages I wish were served at Christmas Time
1. A Gingerbread House filled with Beer, Wine, and Peach Schnapps.
2. Hot Cocoa, Gypsy Fingernails, and Nail Polish
3. Ouzo, Salt Lick, and a single lick of peppermint
4. Santa's beard and Vodka.
On a tangent... If Santa Clause were to exist there is no way that he wouldn't be Russian.
I tried to post pictures of other Seattle Supersoncis Power Forwards to further promote my unfulfilled potential. Shawn Kemp, Chris Wilcox, and Michael Cage are all harbingers of my existence. However, my understanding of html only lets me post one picture at a time. Vin Baker and his drinking problem best represent me. Thank God I am not Kevin Durant. I don't want to curse him.
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