Behold The Pelican

To my brothers in East Lansing, young G-Men loving Jewish home boys, and the man himself... This one goes out to Plaxico Burress. How rare is the gesture that inspires sympathy, disgust, and gratitude. News is still leaking out but initial reports are that you shot yourself in an injured right leg, already a spot of injury. If you cite "medicinal purposes" as the reason for your gun shot I promise to fly to New York City and award you the Gold Medal of Comedy. Don't write off my offer, Eugene Levy will be presiding over the ceremonies. If the stars align, bringing me for a week long stay to East Lansing, I have half a mind to produce a sitcom centered around the zany antics of Plaxico Burress and Charles Rogers. Michigan State Wide Receivers: formed in tragic mold and deserving of a Tennessee Williams two act. Would they be willing to settle for a buddy comedy? I promise a motorcycle with a sidecar. 

Consider the Pelican. 

Man's domain is the Earth. We traverse the sky, explore the sea, but such endeavors are done with the feebleness of a toddler wearing training wheels far too long. In wind or water, we foray forth in little manifestations of land. A boat and a plane do not capture the essence of these environs, they merely preserve land so it might be brought to such places. There are three phases to the Earth. With all human ingenuity, we will never master anything outside of our own domain. We don't belong in these places and our presence, unnatural and forced, shoddily imitates the birds and fish, mocking the planet. 

Thinking about things like this makes me think that humans are really very silly. 

I came to think of this yesterday morning when Andrew McNally and I were living a poem or maybe a short story about the Young and Hungry Portuguese. 

Two young men ride bicycles through a darkened city, peddling peddling forever peddling as civilization slowly wanes and land begins to sink; slowly giving way to the Ocean. They take off their shirts, wade into the waves, and find a baseball in the tide. The play catch as fog forms all around them. 

I collapsed upon the beach, turning my eyes towards the glittery horizon. In the distance, I saw a black dot dizzily flitting about above me. Thinking this was some sort of strange visual phenomenon,  I was intrigued following the black dot as it got closer and came into full form, revealing itself to be a Pelican. The Pelican came to rest upon the waves for a moment before sashaying forth in a sudden burst of natural I'm hungry instincts. It shot into the sky, swooped down and scooped a helpless fish in its malformed mouth, inextricably shaped for exactly such a purpose. The Pelican arced above me, coming to rest behind me on the shore, feasting on the fruits of versatility. At precisely this moment, a plane took off from the nearby LAX Airport, utilizing hundreds of years of ingenuity, sixty million dollars, and jet thrusters to soar far over the Pelican and into the far off Pacific. 

Maybe it was headed to China. Maybe to the Philippines. I usually love looking up and wondering where a plane was headed but I didn't now. Being human suddenly seemed like such a let down. 

I could easily delve into semantics and scientific subsets, but for generality's sake there are three phases to the planet. The ground, the water, and the sky.  Many creatures possess the ability to interact with all three but few (if any) marry the world together like the Sea Bird. Their abilities leave them ill-suited for any particular place, but the coalescence of all three elements allows their true nature, and thus beauty to display itself. As man, all endeavors are limited to terrestrial dealings.  

Sitting in the sand in a suddenly finite universe, painfully aware of my own small stature, my thoughts turned to Jennifer Lopez. J-lo or "Jenny for the Block" is probably one of the most powerful women on the planet with universes of Bronx cheering chicanas turning on her fingertips. (Note: This is meant as literal as there are certainly some people who find J-Lo's nails very important). For all of J-Lo's merits and influence, she will never master the Planet like Pelican.  

The idea of a Super Hero is a profoundly fetishized cultural phenomenon that I've never quite understood to be frank. University discussions, y'know the kind where you wear track jackets and listening to Damien Rice, leave me ill-suited to argue this claim to hordes of Fanboys and I have no real reason, either. Plainly: the appeal doesn't resonate with me, but the reasons behind my disdain became clear yesterday. Back in May, I stuffed a bunch of Taco Bell down my pants and went to see a movie entitled Iron Man. The nebulous affair regarded the exploits of a raging alcoholic and playboy without explaining the dangers of STD's and unwanted pregnancies lurking behind such irresponsibility. At the very least I would have expected some lesions flecking his forehead. Aside from his ardent vice, Iron Man is made special, thus super, as the pimpled vernacular would have it from a metallic suit allowing him to swoop through the air like a hummingbird and smash through walls like a two-story tall brahma bull with opposable thumbs that also shoot out missiles. Despite the vitriol dripping from my fingers in the tongue in cheek cavalcade, I enjoyed the film a great deal. Watching a Super Hero, especially one played to the apex of impish charm by Robert Downey Jr.,  perform amazing feats tantalizes and torments the imagination as it stretches the capped confines of human potential. 

If something like Iron Man were to occur in reality, it would unquestionably stand as the most amazing event in human history. Even the most ardent of Christians would weep at the altar wondering why Jesus never shot rockets at Pontius Pilot. If we are going to play hypotheticals, let us grant the Pelican powers of abstract thought and a full understanding of human kinesiology and physics. As the world heaped praise on the new Iron Man, the Pelican would scoff in haste. Soured by the human experience, the Pelican would surmisably head to a local watering hole for Whiskey Tonics (the favorite adult beverage of all sea faring birds). After two or three drinks, depending on how much the Pelican ate that day, he would turn to the bar room television that would either be showing news of the real life Iron Man or speculation on where LeBron James will sign in 2010.  

The Pelican gives a loud scoff, aided by its mouths amazing acoustics, the call would rattle around the bar, drawing the ire of the bartender. The barkeep, a sage old Irish soul, would turn to the Pelican. 

"What you aren't impressed?" 

"Hell no. He's just wearing a suit." 

"Mighty fine suit though. Let's see you invent something like that." 

"Let's see him and his amazing suit go in the water." 

"They can't do that. He'd be electrocuted." 

"Exactly." 

The Pelican would walk out without paying his tab. I couldn't blame him. 

The Survey Says...

    Dearest Friends (And Family For I've Decided To Include My Parents And Sister In On This E-Mail), 

There are two reasons I am writing this e-mail: 

A) My good mutant muchacho Brock  has recently instituted a policy where our friend group aligns for a showcase each month. It is good to share, especially with these wonderful genius people. 

B) I have been reading a lot of economic mumbo jumbo as pertaining to sociological manners. This can be found in the form of Malcolm Gladwell's The Outliers which would have been a wonderful book if he didn't realize it was going to be so good. 

As such I am writing you with the humble request to fill out a survey of key questions. I asked what I felt was necessary to ask and nothing but my slipstream consciousness is evident on the page. The questions are far from easy but I hope each of you answers it as honestly and accurately as you can. I will do the same, sharing my results on Newhindenburg.blogspot.com within the next few hours. 

My goal in this is simple.... Having being wowed by sets of figures and survey results I have taken it upon myself to garner a wealth of raw information. I don't have any interest in mathematics or architecture so I figured I would garner information, an essence if you will, of those closest to me. My hypothesis: A story lies within everyone. My goal: to find the story that's going on. 

If you have the good faith and free time I would very much like to use your efforts in hopes of someday deciphering a concept, near and dear to my chest that I refer to as "The Great Narrative". 

-Joel Walkowski, esquire magazine subscriber

My results: 

The Winter 2008 Self Assessment and Research Survey

 

Basics

 

Name: Joel Cullen Walkowski

Age: 22

Gender: Male

Height: 6’3 though my Driver’s License Says 6’4
Weight: 215

Place of Origin: Born in Southfield, Michigan, raised in Dearborn, Michigan, currently languishing in Los Angeles, California

What Is Your Ethnic Origin: Irish/Polish… Perfect Mix For Lots of Drinking I suppose

How Would You Describe Your Love Life: Bleak, Narcissistic, and Envious but holding out for Magic

Your Family Life: I talk to my Mom a lot but regard my Father and Sister as near strangers and as such, am terrified to see them.

Your Friendship Life: Excellent. I try to give my best to those closest to me. Though I love the people surrounding me I sometimes have to stifle the urge to run into the desert and subsist off of possums without ever having another conversation.

Current Lifestyle: Allows me to become an expert on basketball and have long conversations when they are warranted. On the other hand, I don’t do much for myself.

How Good Are You At Math: Terrible

What Do You Enjoy Wasting Time On: Reading about basketball, playing catch, talking with Nick about the most trivial of matters, reading books I know I will forget, pretending to be mentally retarded, rubbing my belly.

What Is Your Favorite Food: Orange Chicken

Do You Wear A Watch: No

How Would You Describe Your Personal Fashion Sense: Most of my clothes were given to me in a garbage bag. As a result I am usually dressed like I am either about to play basketball or sleep in a teepee. I also wear unitards.

 

Professional/Creative

 

What Is Your Ultimate Be All End All Goal: To live in a Hogan Home funded by displays of my brilliance with a wife I love and my six daughters.  If this doesn’t pan out I would very much like to fill Will Ferrell’s shoes as America’s Favorite Drunken Clown.

How Do You Get Closer To This: Keep writing, living, and imagining. Also: open my heart as wide as it can go and let everyone inside.

What Are Your Fallback Plans: Work on a sitcom, play Tenori-On on the street, find work somewhere anywhere in a zoo. 

Of The Past Year…Of What Are You Proudest: Writing a novel, being well liked by children, generally acting like an imbecile.

Of The Past Year… Of What Are You Least Proud Of (Don’t share if you are uncomfortable): Putting off the novel to read about basketball and watch pornography, pick one of eleven or twelve depressing nights. 

 What Was The Most Fun Day Of The Past Year: Christmas Eve 2007. My Mother, dear friends, and I had an excellent dinner of shrimp. Afterwards, I went upstairs and wrote 40 pages. Then, I picked up Pete for a depressing breakfast at Big Boy. Afterwards, we peeked into family windows as they opened their presents.

What Was A Bad Day:  My first day of French III. Being so far behind and requisitely an imbecile put me far behind in the class. I looked at Sourya, an overweight Indian man with a command of the language and wished I were he. He plays video games for four hours a day and I was ready to give up everything, for a grade, to become him. No offense if you’re reading Sourya, I think you’re tops but we are VASTLY different creatures.

If You Could Get Paid To Do One Thing What Would It Be: Act weird and scream in public.

If You Could Live Anywhere Where Would It Be: Rome

What Is Your Career GPA: 3.65/college 2.5/high school

What Was Your SAT/ACT Score: 28 but this was skewed by a 17 in Math and a 26 in Reading.

PEPSI or COKE: Pepsi

Describe Your Work Habits: I wait for days and days to get in the zone. If I don’t get into the zone it is a bad day but if I do I am liable to walk arou8nd happily in the early hours and drink one beer in a meadow of USC’s campus. 

Draw A Cartoon (Use Microsoft Paint or Photoshop If Necessary): I put it at the top of this post. If you lacked context, I have utilized my entire Chinese History class to draw a series of bulbous creatures known as Borgs that always say “BORG”. This is a Bog on Halloween, dressed as a ghost, scaring another Borg.

Write A Haiku:

A rash on my thigh.

I itched but told my lover

“They’re constellations”

Describe a Fun Dream You Have Had:

I dreamed that Brock and I were riding on a plane that had been affixed with a bomb. We both knew, beforehand, that a bomb was on the plane… but decided the easiest was out was to built a train that would aide in our escape from the plane. We did. We lived. The would be bomber was this fellow who worked at Zemeckis two years ago and yelled at me once.

If You Do Drugs or Partake In Copious Amounts of Alcohol How Do You Feel When Affected: Pretty good, slightly weird, only mournful when awake waaaaaaaay past my bedtime.

Off The Top Of Your Head…If You Could Dedicate Yourself To ONE Thing What Would It Be: Guerilla Playgrounds!!!!!!!!

 

In Flux

What Will You Be Doing In A Year: No idea. I'm a failure waiting to happen. 

In A Month: Spending idle time w/ Mom and Sister

In A Week: Fretting over the novel

Tomorrow: Fretting over the novel and perhaps taking a beautiful girl on a long walk.

Why: Because I have no idea where the winds will take me. I am powerless in their grasps but it is oh so necessary to strive

Describe What You Find To Be Meaningful: Making people smile, laugh, and play.

Attempt To Explain A Concept You Hold Near And Dear But Fear Others Will Not Understand:

The Great Narrative is a lot like destiny without the force and aided by a shrewd sense of humor. T.G.N. understands how pitiful and hilarious are the existences shared by human, cacti, and dolphins and provides a reason for every peony interaction. Like God, but nice, free flowing, open-sourced, and willing to be scribed by his loyal denizens.

What Do You Do Immediately After Waking Up: Stare at Nick, stumble downstairs, find moccasins, plan my trek to school or read 5-10 pages of some bullshit.

How Good Are You At Math: Terrible

If You Could Change One Thing About Yourself What Would It Be: I’d like to be accepting of everything!!! J Without a debate first…

If You Could Point One Good Thing About Yourself To Others What Would It Be:

The thing I am predisposed to point to is the thing I already know… I am a fairly good writer. I know this and would happy if you noticed if I’d have shaved recently. 

 

 

Conditions for Success ie Failure's Silver Lining ie How the Past Year Has Made Me A Much Better Alien

Not to be extravagant, but of my several skills there are several that stand out: I carry an encyclopedia of American Professional Basketball beginning in the year 1979 around with me in my head, I excel at acting absurd, and have excellent reading comprehension. Assuming this last fact to be true, and not some vanity induced delusion, it is fair to assume that the things I read affect me. My latest readings have been socioeconomic mash-ups that, in a nutshell, stand to decipher the determinants of success via divergently different ways. These books, far from the life affirming works of Murakami or even say Kesey's  Jail Journal, cast a shadow of doubt on all life's endeavors.

If I have learned anything it is that: 

1. The only control I have over my destiny is by working hard and laboriously with a sunny disposition. 

2. It is best not to expect anything. 

3. Keeping quiet is a good thing. 

4. Illustrations prove a much better guide than pictures. 

5. Unitards, though fun to wear, are ultimately unflattering and I should think twice before designating my "Spirit Garment" as something designed for super fit pre-teens. 

Of the lessons I've learned, paramount among them is the exciting offers that lie in failure. 

Last year, during Christmas Break, my friends Nick, Hoopster, John, and I decided to recapture our glory by making a movie. It was no small endeavor.  We braved sub-zero temperatures to film brutal murders in the unforgiving Michigan Frost. We built a tawdry spaceship and came together as a team, but the project never came together. Because we never had anything to show, I classified it as a failure. My portrayal of "Fenkel" was a relic destined for the dust of human beings too absconded by their own shit to ever know true beauty. We had good ideas, a fun time making it, but we'd never laugh (over beers perhaps?) over the finished product. 

Almost a year later... 

I didn't give a shit about film making. 

I thought of the past 3 years as a waste while I flirted with the idea of becoming a novelist, sailor, or needle-nosed prong in the Academic Monster. 

Then, Nick, rife with indecision came to me fretting about the prospects of his latest film, a short top be produced for his 290 class. For those of you not in the USC film school, 290 is the life blood of our entire institution. It is our only chance to fully express ourselves as creative artists and produce full-fledged manifestations of ourselves. 

A microcosm of myself: I came to USC riding waves of self-fulfilled projects. I took 290 in my first semester and felt ready to take the world over, only to find myself mired in the bureaucratic wreckage of holding a boom pole and getting permits for the next two years. If I hadn't fallen into a certain blessed group of friends I absolutely SHOULD HAVE DROPPED OUT TWO YEARS AGO. 

But I digress. What I mean to say is that 290 is a big deal. I suppose I could have just typed that but flinging fancy words around never grows old. I get to pound my keyboard and letting me visit ESPN.com with my alarming frequency. 

Talking with Nick it was clear he had no handle on his latest film. I proposed we remake our old friend "Podding". He thought of making it in Michigan with our old buds John and Pete. Than, the idea dawned on us... we should make this film in L.A. within the confines of our current structure. This meant I would be able to reprise my role as "Fenkel" but it also meant that the finished product would display the discrepancies between our Michigan lives and their Los Angeles incarnates. 

We're almost done shooting. I have spent this entire weekend in the mindset of Fenkel, a hand smelling alien from the planet Shizzanafrottoma. In the process I thought I was losing my mind. 

However, our past failures are no longer failures. They paved the way for this. The past year's events have prepared us both to honestly and accurately portray the story of an Alien coming to Earth and laying eggs all over the place. 

There is no failure. There is only gestation. 

Sometimes LIfe Feels Damned Good...

If I had been feeling insecure or out of place it would have been idiotic. If I was a business man it would have been a jarring waste of time. Lucky for me, I am Joel Walkowski, curious human being and little else (trust me I'm barely even a student at this point). 

This evening, my brother in arms Bryan and I went for a jaunty night on the town. We are fairly cosmopolitan fellows, especially Bryan who is omnisciently well versed in issues of culture, prose, and music. His insights wow me and I frequently have to muster my best logic just to keep up. He's introduced me to the joys of illustration, the whimsy of Beltre, and a plethora of other gifts but sometimes it's good to waste an hour or two with a great friend. As we dined on Almond Chicken and Broccoli Beef, I brought up my mother's romantic infatuation with historical re-enactors. He cocked a mischievous eyebrow and asked if we should gather our friends and produce a historical reenacting troupe for the ABA. We concluded that Andrew McNally would be Dan Issel but soon faltered in our aim. 

We concluded the ABA was too difficult and lacking of Nick Olah oriented point guards for an adequate comparison. We settled on the 1980's, comparing several members of our friend group to the NBA players whose game suited their personalities. The conversation proved so enjoyable we continued, comparing our friends to 1990's ballers. It should be noted, for posterity's sake of course, that Nico Constantinides was far and away the most difficult to classify. 

Let us commence... 

First and foremost are the rules. The top players from the 80's (Bird, Magic, Jordan, Dr. J, and Isiah) are off limits. As are the top players from the 90's (Jordan, Shaq, Hakeem). Also, ability is of little importance, with the games far by gone we will only remember the stars. This exercise is about how certain basketball styles and iconography's are telling of friend's traits. There are some exceptions for parallel personalities.  

The marriage of Andrew McNally and one Dan Issel is a beautiful thing. I take McNally as a loyal fellow as was Issel during his long tenure for the Denver Nuggets. I can also see McNally becoming a superstar or folk hero if he ever happens to live in Kentucky. Conversely, I see Issel smoking cigarettes in a hammock maligning the state of the world. 

1990's= Vlade Divac . A statesman, flopper, and cheat in the most endearing of ways. Frequently smokes cigarettes in interviews. Fully embraces his status of Yugo cult hero. I trust Andy Mac would do the same. 

Jeff LaPenna: 

We struggled with Jeff a great deal. I saw Jeff's most recent haircut today and said "Wow, you really try to look weird dontcha?". This realization permeated our conversation and we tried to figure out a player who partook in the sport with an unorthodox chip on his shoulder. I'll admit that Jeff had no perfect pairs but we did our best. 

80's: Tom Chambers

Chambers always did the opposite of what was expected. As a borderline effeminate forward with bangs, he played the game with earth shaking power. I argued for Chambers because Jeff is a blackbelt but doesn't boast it in everyday occurrences, only taking it out when it will shock and awe. I remember having a trading card of Chambers holding up the 1987 All-Star Game MVP award and being shocked at his achievement as an eight-year-old. I feel the same way towards Jeff almost everyday. He delivers the unexpected because he does what Jeff wants/needs to do and everything else is garnish. 

We played with the Bill Walton comparison for obvious reasons as well. Jeff could be either. 

90's: Thunder Dan Majerle. 

I think it should be noted that Jeff has been equated with two handsome and shockingly athletic players who got by on their abilities. Jeff has certain attributes that might cause the unknowing to attempt to pigeon hole him. The same thing happened with ol' Dan. As a spry caucasian shooting guard he was put on the fast track to coaching but he never wanted that. Deep down he wanted to own a bar called "Thunder Dan's". Upon checking Wikipedia, I guess he's a coach again... Um... this sort of shoddifies the argument but look into the future... Jeff LaPenna will someday coach the Phoenix Suns. They will body paint the court and flummox foes with their stunning array of hats! 

Brock Alter

80's: Orlando Woolridge

Woolridge wore goggles without needing to, did his job, but transmogrified to whatever the situation required. He played in a myriad of offenses of varying prestige, filling required roles but being inextricably Orlando Woolridge through it all. 

90's: John Starks 

John Starks could be the best player in the NBA or the worst player in the NBA depending on his state of mind. When John Starks was going with it, he was a true superstar. When John  Starks felt the pressure to fulfill preexisting expectations he often choked, shrinking from the occasion to maintain his status as silly John Starks. This comes off as a dis but I see Brock thriving as Brock and failing when attempting to subvert that goal. As whatever, John Starks dunked over Michael Jordan in a crucial game seven possession. As "John Starks", Starks cost his team a championship.

He was a friendly imp and constant provocateur, especially of Reggie Miller and Vernon Maxwell, who played into his trap by being high strung. 

Joel Walkowski (I.E. Me) 

1980's: Charles Barkley 

I am flattered by this comparison as Barkley was my childhood idol. I thought it might be because of our outspoken, world as a playground personalities, but personalities don't count, only the game. 80's Barkley had yet to fully understand his gifts but they were of the extremely unusual sort, stemming from his unique upbringing. Lore has it that Barkley gained his jumping ability when boredom caused him to jump over and over a fence for hours. When I tell a strange story at parties, when I write something enjoyably strange, I trace it back to some quirk of youth, pinpointing it's origin with ease. I am a strange collection of foibles and gifts, though my ambition is insatiable, I don't always serve my goals well. To wit: Barkley was a horrid defender and never tried on D. Joel Walkowski, wastes too much time and is easily distracted/consumed by unnecessary whims. 

Also, I really like food. Today in class I wrote the word "food" across my knuckles. 

1990's: Cedric Ceballos (Bryan said Shawn Kemp but only after I was displeased with Ceballos)

Ceballos was a show off. He dunked with a blind fold on.  He is a show off, I play Tenori-On. He could be a great player when he wanted but a horrible malcontent when not controlling his own universe. He was quit the Lakers for two months in the middle of the season, only to return for a playoff run.  For an apt comparison witness me in any classroom this semester. I stare at walls and draw creatures called Borgs while others take notes. 

Nick Olah 

1980's: Scottie Pippen 

Like Pippen, Nick is incredibly versatile, likes to help others, and displays an amazing ability at certain things. Like Pippen, Nick is sometimes neglectful of his own person. Pippen got splitting headaches for three years before getting a pair of bifocals that fixed the problem. Nick gets stomachaches after almost every meal but doesn't see this as the onus to do anything. Also, I think Nick knows he can succeed in certain tasks regardless of his surroundings, though this confidence could really get him down if abused. Pippen refused to play when a last second shot was called for him. I doubt Nick would work on one of my movies if I decided Toni Kukoc was going to be the editor... that might be a bad example. 

1990's: Dikembe Mutombo 

I vividly remember sneaking away from my first communion party (a really big deal for the Polish) to watch the last few minutes of game 5 of the Nuggets/Sonics first round series. The Nuggets won the game, securing the greatest first round upset in NBA History. As hoopla commenced around the court, Mutombo grabbed the ball, lay down on the ground, and shrieked. Nick performs similar tasks almost daily. 

John Scaramucci

80's AND 90's: Joe Dumars 

Both seem commonplace but quietly excel. Both are smarter/wiser than average folks because of good hearts, old souls, and preternatural wisdom. This one was easy. 

Heidi Knappenberger 

There are often two Heidi's. One appears sullen and agitated in class, looking bored and eager to leave. The other laughs, speaks in funny voices, and rises to be the life of the party when the time is right. 

We equated class Heidi with the 1980's and Robert Parish. Parish succeeded while seemingly bored with his work. I've tried to write papers with Heidi only to have her teach me about "Nailin Paylin". Parish went through the motions but still managed to be a superstar. 

1990's Heidi = Rik Smits, often known as the "Dunkin Dutchman". Smits was perhaps the goofiest NBA player of all time. At 7 foot 4 and wearing a head covered in feathered locks, he appears as something Heidi might impersonate to the extreme amusement of one Mr. LaPenna. Far from a novelty, Smits and these characters possess a wide gamut of skills or windows into society's absurd inner workings. You realize such a weird thing is being effective but it's too late. You've already seen the substance. Smits had a crazy sky hook, too. 

Dan 

1980's: Kareem Abdul -Jabbar post 1986 

Kind of a ninny but really effective. Liable to slap at a moment's provocation and glide around unnoticed. Also, I can't ignore physical similarities. Both have been known to wear somewhat silly glasses and are brethren in the brotherhood of gaunt. Kareem skied over all contenders without breaking a sweat. Dan sleeps 18 hours a day but is a full time student and employee. I swear to god the kid's weeks are 340 hours long. Also, Dan benefits from a strong guiding hand that isn't afraid to yell at him, coaxing him to be the best he can be. I think back to his time toting a pseudo teacher around school and see Chauncey, his liege, as Dan's point guard. 

1990's: Greg Ostertag

He just funny. 

Matt Goodwin

80's and 90's: James "Buddha" Edwards... uh yeah! 

Chau Tu

80's: Big Game James Worthy 

Isn't necessarily an underdog, but achieves on their own accord without bogging down others. Being part of a team is no big thing either. The argument is weak here but it just made sense. I proposed James for Chau and he shrieked "YES! I always loved James Worthy!" 

90's: Grant Hill 

Smooth, gliding, cool, and collected. Grant played piano in his spare time and had a white collar quality that didn't harm his street cred. Chau astounds with her level of dedication to her chosen path but doesn't bear burdens of being a "sell-out" or "over worked". Makes the arduous seem effortless. Also, it was hard to decide which of Bryan and Chau were Steve Smith and which was Grant Hill. Smith and Hill are basketball soulmates and I'd like to lump the Hood and the Tu into similar categories. 

Bryan Hood:  

90's: Steve Smith: See the above reasons. Smith flew below the radar for much of his career but quietly and consistently led his Hawks team to the second round. Smith paid no credence to what was expected of an NBA player, becoming a bona-fide philanthropist and scholar during his career. Bryan befriends his underlings at work. Both respect their positions enough not to buy 20 year old kids booze though I can't be sure about Smith. Also, Bryan's scholarship proves intimidating at times but it only coaxes better conversation. Unlike so many glib talks I have to back up my ludicrous statements with evidence. 

80's Clyde "The Glide" Drexler 

This is another selection that delighted Bryan. He eagerly informed me that he used to parade around his house as a 4-year-old pretending to be Drexler. Drexler did his duty, slashing and swimming to the hole with utter freedom. Others tried to boggle Drexler down with comparisons to the likes of Jordan but near-zen like, Drexler quietly kept playing the game. I've witnessed Bryan march through a series of professional successes, failures, and falters but he attacks each day the same way: In plaid! 

Nico Constantinides

Nico was far and away the hardest friend to classify. We looked for a player who played weird but didn't know it. We pitched player upon player of varying strengths but at the end of the day I must concede that Nico continues to defy explanation. 

However...if I were to stretch I would say 

80's: Wayman Tisdale 

If only because he cared more about the saxophone than anything else. This seems aligned with Nico's stated ambitions. Wayman had a quiet workmanlike quality but still played as if orchestrated by music. Watching Nico do something, anything really, I struggle to hear the underscore that controls his movements. 

90's: Chris Webber

Whoopsies! 

Synching up With Baloncesto ie BIG WHITE STIFFIES

I liked this post and decided to throw it everywhere.

Please note: This isn't really about race. It's more about meatballs, Mark Eaton, and hot wiring an ATV for a joyous jaunt around rural Utah.

Race plays a big part in the perception of NBA players. This is so elementarily evident I learned it the tender age of six. My Dad and I went to Meijer to purchase a basketball pump for my flat sphere of rubber. The time must have offered a market boom in ball inflation as there were five different selections to choose from. I noticed one of them featured a caricature of Michael Jordan alongside a caricature of a white man in a Milwaukee Bucks uniform. I was an NBA expert, eager to rattle off the name, jersey number, and college affiliation of any playoff team, but had no idea who this goofy white man was.

Upon closer inspection it was Brad Lohaus. Brad fucking Lohaus. He of the career 5.9 career PPG was featured next to Michael Jordan, inspiration for the feature film "Michael Jordan: An American Hero" that I watched for fifteen minutes this morning. As a tangent: fifteen minutes of the film offered three scenes of Jordan crying.

Jordan had yet to vicariously break the hearts through mediums of Barkley and Malone so I was still a Jordan fan. His tongue waggling gave a good excuse for my drooling problem. I didn't have a muscular deficiency in my lower lip, I was just trying to be like Mike. My Dad, being the good father he was, instinctively picked the pump with Jordan on it. I told him to put it back. Not even children want any part of Lohaus.

As I grew up with the NBA I was forced to accomodate a series of big white stiffs that were shoved down my throat and marketed to embarassing excess. Shawn Bradley, Keith Van Horn, Christian Laettner, Big Country Reeves, Bobby Hurley, and an assortment of other caucasian ballers played the game with the fire of an accountant and cast a stigma upon white players that follows me to this day upon forays to the local basketball court.

Other players of Hispanic or African origins get compared to Kobe or Ginobilli upon making a great play. I played a dominant game on Wednesday, scoring eight baskets from all over the court. I blocked several shots, drove and dished, and even threw my fat frame into the lane for a stylish reverse layup. After threading an outlet pass the length of the court through two defenders, I felt like Karl Malone 1997 vintage edition.

"Nice pass Manning but save it for the Gridiron."

These backhanded compliments rub me the wrong way but I accepted it as I thought I was wearing my Detroit Dream Team shirt reading "Manning" on the back. Taking it off before the third game I realized the back said "Tomlinson" , leaving no connections to Peyton Manning beside my race and awkwardness.

No matter what the white player does he is being eliminated from the Great Narrative of the game. I can't blame this for happening. They receive undue amounts of praise for intangibles, poise, and solid help defense. I'm a huge supporter of Kevin Love. Minnesota is the perfect situation for him and I see him blossoming into an All-Star with Al Jefferson hiding his downfalls and McHale teaching him beautiful footwork. Still, Kevin Love is overhyped.

Held out hope for the Great White Hope builds mountains out of Kevin Love molehills. I can't delve into discussions of Love's game without first prefacing my unwillingness to discuss sociopolitical ramifications.

I don't know what determines who is hyped and who isn't but focus on white basketball players is usually piled on the wrong citiZens. Joe Alexander, come jump for us. Adam Morrison, come conjure the spirit of Larry Bird. White players get labeled as previous caucasian incarnates but these labels harm the game. Undue pressure on white players to become Bird, Nowitzki, or Stockton is lazily applied to any white player usually because of a silly haircut or similar background. Dan Dickau was touted as the next Stockton even though his abilities are that of a career 12th man.

If an undersized point guard with a glittering smile were to come out of inner city Chicago, there's no way in hell he'd be touted asthe next Isiah Thomas.

There is a double standard here. Players get extra credit that applies the same pressure faced by any of the failed "Next Jordans". Are you reading this Harold Miner? Are you there Jerry Stackhouse? Players of no remarkable ability are predestined to the heavens only to be quickly revealed to be nothing more than pretenders. However, idiotic implications of this were quickly realized as we save the Jordan label for the deserving (ie Kobe)

The full scope of this has made me tired of white basketball players as it produces a double double standard. White players only matter if applied with the "NEXT" label. There's a poor imitation of Bird every year. Imaginary Stocktons pass without notice. The result of this jades me from caring about any caucasian prospect this side of Walter Herrmannnnnn. This is not the crime as it is neccesary to lash out against the all-encompassing media, but when a good white player comes along, someoine special and different but lacking the distinction of being an heir apparent, we fail to take notice.

There is no such thing as underrated and overrated. I don't know who would rate these things, let alone give them creedence, but Tayshaun Prince would top most underrated lists. Tayshaun Prince, star of a perennial contender, Gold Medal winner, one of the most hailed players of his era. Tay, I love you, but you ain't underrated. People care, people watch, people listen.

Greg Ostertag.
Darko Milicic.
Jon Koncak.
Joe Klein.
Chris Dudley.
Paul Shirley.
Pat Burke.
Joel Pryzyzyzyzizizbilla

In my years of watching the league, the white center has been ingrained in my mind as the athletic equivalent of a yawn. They get dunked on, get red and silly looking when winded, and even when a white man excells in the post (a la Chris Kaman) they do so in the brute force of quiet servitude. 16, 14, and 3 blocks, never looked so workman like. In the rare case that a white center has some down home gumption or Yugo Street style (a la Brad Miller or Vlade Divac) it exudes peppered with enough passing game and jumpers from the 'bows to render them as ultimately irrelevant abberations. Even Mehmet Okur, paragon of pasty seven footers everywhere gets paid for jumpers.

Seeing a white center I look away from the screen. Give me Bynum (raw oozing potential), Horford (gusto in a sea of Dominican flags), or Dalembert (Haitian like Brock!)

It has taken some work. I glued my eye lids wide open as hour upon hour of Bill Laimbeer's greatest hits (literally and figuratively) flickered on screen and into my cerebral cortex. Post-brainwashing I am ready to remember the white center and welcome them back to the NBA. Congratulations guys, you're relevant!

Andris Biedrins and Spencer Hawes are playing the Center position as well as any young big this side of Young Thunder. It takes some getting used to, some adjustment, but if you open your mind you will see that these two play a very beautiful game. Hawes is maligned for Republican roots and Biedrins is ignored for being Latvian (long whither the Latvians), but between these two the role of the big white stiff is forever being vanquished. It is probably KG's influence ignoring racial boundaries to inspire big men every where, but I don't much care about the reasons. The rtwo are playing c0mplete games. They bang in the post, fulfilling the role of big man as they block shots and board but are till unsatiated with the million dollar contracts afforded to such role players. They take it a step further, ignoring the glass ceiling of Big White Stiffs as they evolve into complete players. Hawes shoots jumpers, Biedrins drives to the basket like a sixteen year old playing drunk for the first time.

Their current stat lines are as follows:

Biedrins: 35 minutes, 16.8 points, 14.8 rebounds, 1.7 Blocks, 1 Steal.
Hawes: 30 minutes, 13 points, 8 rebounds, 2.2 blocks, 1 Steal, and carries a parasol whenever he is outside.

I read an inordinate amount about the NBA and such publications are rife with the development and deployment of the next great big men. The focus is often on Andrew Bynum and Greg Oden. While Bynum is well on the way to All-Star Games and Oden is... supposedly nice. As highly touted bigs they deserve the attention but whither Biedrins and Hawes. They languish in near obscurity as no one can come to grips with the fact that a White Center may actually be good. Such a notion rocks the foundation of our basketverse.

Maybe it'd held if we labeled them. Henceforth: Hawes will be "Rik Smits on Adderall" and Biedrins will be "The Latvian Laimbeer". I know their games have absolutely nothing in common with Smits and Laimbeer but if it takes an idiotic labeling process to get them some attention so be it.

As We Travel And Grow We Might Just Turn To Snow

I think I may have accidentally linked this blog to my Facebook. Now that it's done I won't bother to undo it as the prospect of a potential employer, snooping through personality profiles, might read long winded (if that's possible for the written word) diatribes on French Toast and other preferred topics. 

***** 

In a return to form, the amazing returned to my life. Those who know me, realize my definition of amazing is idiosyncratic and ever changing. I see great beauty in the television commercial "Daddy's Little Girls" in which two little girls set their Dad on a date by giving him Just For Men hair dye. I see beauty everywhere, when Baby Jamster is attacked by a cactus it is more than bad luck. As I have come to understand my new room mate I've come to accept him as a throw back. 

I cannot overstate how refreshing this is to my world of college students/artists/people who work at Kinko's. 

We frequently foray into Joshua Tree for a bit of an exit, artistic missions, and hikes of varying challenges. On these hikes, Baby Jamster frequently finds himself attacked by a cactus. 

We were walking through fields of Cholla, especially barbed cacti that strongly resemble the fictional vegetation from Super Mario 3. Observing the world in his familiar nonchalance Baby Jamster remarked that "This land is hazardous." 

Moments later he screamed "FUCK!" We turned around to the horrifying sight of three cacti lodged in his left calf. He couldn't pull them out. He could barely walk. Nick ran to his car and got some spare scissors. He cut off the larger barbs and sucked it up. One by one, Jamster pulled out the barbs. Judging by the scars in his leg there were at least seventy, but none fell out with ease. Watching him perform auto-semi-surgery provided the variety of nausea reserved for seeing road kill. 

Not able to take it, I went in search of some smug distraction. A few feet away was the trail entry way. We hadn't bothered to take the trail. After a three hour drive, made a half an hour longer by my insistence to visit the cholla, abiding the signs was a low priority. We clambored out of the car to conquer!

If we were patient, if prudence had prevailed and we began at a path head, surely we would have noted the three warning signs and poetic dismissal of the cacti's evolutionary purpose. Coulda/woulda/shoulda but it feels damned good to be your damn ignorant self. After walking the path I returned to Jamster, sometimes known as Justin or "The Jam" when feeling affectionate. He'd removed many of the barbs and struggled with a large one. He's a rather slim fellow but when he pulled out the cactus it stretched the flesh of his leg five inches from the bone. 

It might have hurt and embarrassed but it was a thoroughly Jamster thing to do. He shines as a mountain man, tough guy, and man of mythic proportions. He regales Nick with stories of camping in the snow with little supplies and lots of beer. He's legend has already grown to such proportions that I was able to convince Nick he killed a man in self defense. This is the sort of thing that sticks with someone, marking them forever, but its all gravy to Jamster. 

He'll go on being Jamster and the world--being the world--recognizing his place in the great narrative throws several tests to determine just how tough, nonplussed, and adventurous the guy really is. Such instances are common in the Great Narrative (if you are unfamiliar with this concept just ask me as it's the only thing I ever talk about). Certain events, in this case cacti attacks, always seem to happen to certain people. Of course there are variables, probabilities, and a lot of assorted other mish-mosh much the cumulative effect of it all is the Great Narrative. 

A cactus attacking Jamster would happen in the Great Narrative. 

By responding in thoroughly Jamstastic fashion, Jamster affirms his role in the Great Narrative. 

It can not easily be described but everything done by any one or thing makes perfect sense. As it has occurred, so too does an annal of what it means and how it came about. 

The Narrative works especially well on an individual basis as friends become infinitely more interesting. If you don't believe me listen to Jeff describe Nico do anything. Gain enough familiarity with someone and they begin to make sense but the same can be true of perfect strangers. Once in a while the world will get world and wily as events charitably allow something to be perfectly designed by a person, event, or Baron Davis jump shot. In my rollicking journal of the Great Narrative I refer to these as "paragons". There are a lot of these at the grocery store. 

Today, annoyance and the third wheel were perfectly personified. 

Three high-schoolers, two boys and a girl,  walk the aisles of Ralph's. Judging from the hand holding one is a couple. Judging from the aloof and wandering nature of the other male he was best friends with the boyfriend. 

The couple moseyed through the snack aisle as the girl noted her pancake mix, felt a flutter of romance and the desire to make things more interesting. 

"Why don't we get some chocolate chips and make chocolate chip pancakes?"

The boyfriend responded "Why don't we get some chocolate chips and have chocolate chips." 

Footsteps could be heard running over from the next aisle. The friend ran toward the couple and skidded to a halt before their cart. 

"Why don't you get some chocolate chips and have some chocolate chip puss-ay!?!" 

No response. 

"But you can throw the chips away and just get that puss-ay!?!" 

He held his hand up for a high five but the boyfriend just shook his head. No one knew what to do. I was reasonably sure this would make my night more awkward and I wasn't even a part of the conversation. 

So Crazy It Just Might Work

As recently as yesterday I had disdain for activism. In a classroom discussion a girl stated she protested against Proposition 8 to "stand up for those who can't."

At this I cracked "For who? Gay quadriplegics?" The class laughed as I stayed fixed in my stance that no one could do anything. Ever.

Then I had an idea.

Now, I think activism could actually work. If it does it'll be the coolest fucking thing of all time.

Commence the letter writing campaign now. Of course it begins with this...

*****

Dear Mr. Roth,

I am not familiar enough with your work to label myself a fan but my appreciation grows as I delve further and further into your canon. I am currently reading The Plot Against America and enjoy the book on multiple levels. The close perspective and family orient lend a new understanding of persecution while the book’s status as the highest possible brow of fan fiction transports me to the alternate universe you created. Reading your work, the created world sprawls to the edges of the imagination. It is so wonderfully accessible that I expect the book to modify itself to meet my own frame of reference. I turn each page expecting a cameo from Henry Ford, a famed anti-Semite from my hometown of Dearborn, Michigan.
Your career embodies my highest aspirations and I consider it an honor to even read your work (let alone write you a letter) but this note is not intended as flattery or some outreach for advice. I send this along as a very strange but immensely serious request for you Mr. Roth.
I am in my last semester of studies at the University of Southern California and having finished my major, find myself swaddled in the doldrums of a required course load. Scholastic endeavors are spent discussing the Ming Dynasty, mapping river basins and stumbling through an advanced French Class. My prior French classes came during freshman year and I am consequentially overmatched. Hours are dedicated to grammar but as the semester winds to a close “D’s” still show on the tops of my quizzes and I cannot speak without embarrassing myself. Last week, I tried to explain that my voodoo-practicing grandmother sacrificed chickens but the sentiment came out as “mon grand-mère a chié un poulet” or “my grandmother shat a chicken.”
Stemming from my idiocy I have taken on the role of class pet. I ran into a classmate at the bookstore and they expressed surprise that I knew where a bookstore was. I have a fairly laissez-faire existence but find it disturbing how easily some classify me as a moron. I carry a chip on my shoulder that carries into other aspects of my life. I realize these people are mere trivialities on life’s winding road-fit to be forgotten come January-but such a realization is difficult to put into practice. As such, I feel sort of like a lump much of the time.
We are reading Albert Camus’ “The Stranger” and one of our assignments was to come up with titles for the chapters. I can read French fairly well but when called upon my mind blanked. The emergency French vocabulary stored in my subconscious for future use consists primarily of food items. In my panicked state I resorted to the involuntarily and blurted out “Les Crevette Ambitieuse” or “the ambitious shrimp”.
This prompted a slew of giggles around the room. One girl even asked “What kind of drugs are you on today Joel?” I wasn’t on any that day. They wrote this off as another one of my follies but in their laughter came the realization that I was correct or at the very least the inkling that I was onto something.
Camus’ novella hinges on man’s acceptance of universal indifference and the solace found in the joy of survival: eating, breathing, swimming. Simplification, if properly applied can easily turn into satisfaction. These realizations are easy to come by. Each night I go to sleep with a smile after flirting with similar epiphanies but humans are not so simple. The curse of such an intricate thought process begets constant assessment that manifests as desire. Stripping down the ego and world to such starkness is as unnatural to humans as ambition to a shrimp.
No other creature combats it’s nature like humans do. I’ve never heard of a Dog trying to be more confident or a Whale struggling with the courage to chat up a potential mate. I often ponder the differences between a planned life and one comprised only of reaction. The thought of a shrimp forging into the world in hopes of finding treasure or maybe even love struck me as ironically funny but absurdly beautiful with such efficacy that feeling still lingers days later.
I thought of the shrimp leaving home, running from predators, and escaping from fisherman’s nets with great amusement. In doing so. I saw several parallels with my own life as I try to make my way into manhood and figure out what it is I do.
The spirit swam through me. Eager to explain the idea to classmates I expounded my theory with the vigor usually reserved for wonderful conversations or breathtaking touchdowns. I knew my classmates and I were different, cutting a wide swath of varying ideals but this could be the onus for an interesting conversation. The sort of discourse one idealistically expects from Academia before stepping foot on a college campus. I breathlessly explained my idea but it failed to resonate with my classmates. I checked the room for approving glances or perhaps a well-thought out rebuttal but found only eye rolls.
“Are you done disrupting?” asked a fellow classmate, a sorority girl I once saw vomiting off a balcony into some bushes.
At this point my intentions become muddled. I don’t recall the thoughts governing my actions but this is what played out.
“I don’t think I’m disrupting at all. You guys have obviously never read any Philip Roth. (I dropped your name because a professor once told me no college student knows who Philip Roth is.) As a former Pulitzer Prize winner, Roth is renowned as one of the greatest living American authors. He’s done many works but has happened to expound on a similar issue. I borrowed the title “Les Crevette Ambiteuse” from a short story of his about a shrimp seeking to maximize its potential. The story is festooned with cartoonish characters befitting a kid’s book but below the surface, it explores human nature in a fashion quite similar to The Stranger. If you read it you’d probably understand.”
This was the biggest crock of bullshit I’ve ever said but the class took it hook, line and sinker. For the first time all semester they treated me like a human being, asking a series of follow up questions that effectively turned our class into a Philosophical exploration. We were a Plato and togas away from Ancient Greece. The rest of the hour flew by as we openly shared ideas and beliefs.
As I exited class my professor and a fellow student stopped me. “Hey Joel, what was the name of that author?”
“Oh. Philip Roth.”
“Philip Ross?”
“No. Philip Roth. R-O-T-H.”
“Thanks. Where did you say you read the story?”
“I think it’s in one of his collections.”
“Great. I’ll try to find it. It sounds very interesting.”
Following the inevitably of this note I must pose the question: Would you be willing to write this story? Does the tale of a shrimp burdened by ambition burn somewhere within?
I realize this is an uncomfortable position for you to be in. Artists thrive on the freedom of creativity and trying to harness the forces of inspiration for an assignment-let alone one from a foolhardy twenty-two-year-old-can negate the process. I have no idea what you are working on, what your schedule is like, but something caused me to associate the story with you. It might not seem like your work but if you believe in destiny I must wonder if you would in turn be willing to write the tale of explore the scope of a shellfish addled with such an innately American personification? I speak up from the cellar but consider it a challenge. Hell, it could even be fun. Just as it is refreshing to skip school and go to the beach you might find something beautiful in crustacean affairs.
I realize you have no incentive to do this aside from the satisfaction of following the music of chance…and if you so choose, the eventual publishing and success of such a work. After all you’re Philip Roth. THE Philip Roth. As a tangent: that’s probably a trip isn’t it? Such a story might mean nothing to you but it could make a large difference to me.
I use charm to get through many of my classes. Showing up with a smile, having a good attitude, and expressing personal interest in my peers goes farther than any amount of studying. I have done my very best to maintain goodwill with my classmates and professor but all will be destroyed if I am found out as a fraud. There is even a slim chance I will fail. The guilt trip is unintentional but beneficial. I am putting myself through school at one of the most expensive universities in the country. Failing another class would doom me to another semester entailing extensive costs both personal and professional. Another semester would set me back twenty-five thousand dollars and the five-month wait would further retard my entry into adulthood. The purgatory of not really being anything would stop me from writing, demure me from athletics, and cause me to lose further interest in the things I love. My life would become a Petri dish for immaturity, immaturity festering and growing with each passing day.
Thank you for taking the time to read my letter. If you elect to embark I wish you the best of luck. If not, I completely understand. You might even consider such a task as not just a waste of talent but a disregard so vile and encompassing it qualifies as intellectual pollution. To this I say you’re probably correct.
On the other hand, shrimp are very interesting creatures.
All the best,


Joel Walkowski


P.S. If you write the story and chance to visit Southern California I promise the best seafood dinner money can buy. If by some cosmic curse you are allergic to shellfish or don’t like seafood (seafood makes my Dad vomit so he doesn’t much enjoy it. He still likes to go fishing though) we can go to In And Out Burger. Animal style double doubles are as a thing of beauty.

It Began So Casually

The Boy Takes Off With His Water Pipe

The boy takes off with his water pipe. Setting it by his side because the landlord doesn't allow dogs, he strikes up a match and takes it to the charcoal. In the end, it doesn't even need to touch. The coal recognizes the presence of fire, sucks it in, and a wave of sparks erupts through the coal turning everything an ember orange.

It does little to set off an unstoppable wave.

A candidate says/does/seems/appears/was/will be/shot/murdered/played something and it doesn't stop. The wave has begun. Palin's oration, McCain's mavericking, Obama's nefarious origins, Biden's--well, we haven't heard much about Biden. It doesn't matter if these things are of substance or merit, their presence is enough to make them cultural phenomenons and tired tenants of tawdry conversations. No one means anything when discussing any politician at this point--our views have been disseminated and determined by this point to make way for archetypes and punditry--two things that might not be so different. Both are rife for the mudslinging!

An unstoppable wave can be scientifically intriguing or boring as hell.

I am minutes away from losing an hour. This makes me patently uncertain whether the looming election is either two or three days away. My vote has not been cast but the election process feels like it should have died months ago. The peril of having a rogue candidate you choose to follow is the drama abound near everywhere. Super tuesday doesn't seem so super anymore. Nor do any of the other pitstops along the way.

Here is what I know come election day:

Sarah Palin was a popular Halloween costume. So was the Joker. Not nearly enough people went as Jack Nicholson's 1989 incarnation. Lest we forget Jackie Boy.

Obama is funnier without trying than McCain is when trying. This is true of nearly everyone though. When I try to be funny I'm usually not. When I just be, I can be pretty hilarious. I tried to learn my French class in the short lived era of a voodoo practicing Grandmother. I tried to explain how she killed chickens but accidentally said she shat a chicken.

McCain, as portrayed in three excellent portrayals by Esquire Magazine, was rejected by his party, devoid of funding, and down to a scant few supporters. His path to the ticket on the old cobble stone road made him much more of an underdog than Obama could ever/will ever be. Obama harnessed the most powerful (man made) resource on the planet to his advantage. This is the way of Goliath not David, though the view of a man coming to rise in Democracy via the power of the people is an ironic twist of the ole' δημοκρατία or dimokratia.

Elections make people wonder what others arew thinking without ever trying to understand what others are thinking. Nick tries to figure his Mom's logic while Cousins of mine politick on their facebooks to stir debate that strays far from the political realm (love you/miss you/no offense D or P).

From a cultural standpoint Barack Obama is my candidate of choice. He has ties to the inner-city infastructure that has community. He plays basketball...with NBA players...and trash talks them. CHECK IT

He's also spawned the most hilarious generation of t-shirts I have ever seen. Los Angeles' fashion district has produced several lines of Obama tees. One is a high budget affair that juxtaposes Obama with bedazzled microphone in front of a shadow of Martin Luther King. The other is a poor artist's rendering in which he appears to be wearing ruby red lipstick. Also, I've cheered for the token black guy in movies since I started watching them.

But this isn't about culture or feelings or any of the assorted gobbeldy gook that comes with elections. None of that matters.

As the ants in my kitchen can attest I am an exceptionally irresponsible person but I do my best to be a responsible citizen (aside from taking out the garbage). As such I feel it is my duty to disregard cultural jingos, my parent's beliefs, word on the street, and party lines. Though University's are rife with the sort of group think that influences such choices they also harbor political science divisions that strive to help voters make the most informed decision possible.

Last January, during the height of primaries, USC's Political Science School ( a bipartisan facility) published a guide to the election that listed all major and minor candidates and their stances on a cornucopia of issues. Taking this guide, I crossed out the names and put it away for a few days. Taking enough time to go through thr form I read the views and marked the three I agreed with most, awarding points based on rank. Upon completion, I grabbed another guide, computed my answers and found Barack Obama to be the best representation of my chosen world view. John McCain was near the top of my list despite our clashes on issues that could conceivably be tied to religion, and it looked as though I would vote Republican if Senator Clinton had grabbed the Democratic Party Nomination.

Coming in last place by a large margin was Rudy Giuliani. His stance on immigration was to "build a high tech super fence between the United States and Mexico".

A new guide was published this week pitting Obama versus McCain yet again. I felt secure in my choice but wanted to be sure before 11/4. Reworking the test, I fell even more in line with Obama
due to his views on fixing the Economy. I trust our matches on this for no reason besides a community college professor urging me to abandon the arts and enter Economics because I was "a natural".

So there you have it. That's my vote. I wish others would follow such a plan. I don't mean to misconstrue others as misinformed but the constant jabbering, stereotypes, and frayed caricatures make the electoral process hearken back to desperate boredom accompanying a bad relationship.

No matter what happens Tuesday, my plainest hope is that it doesn't dissuade from Nailin' Paylin sequels.

I entered this post with the goal of explaining every Halloween Costume I ever wore. Suffice, that didn't happen. Maybe later. Or never.