Hello My Name Is Paul Gleason

Perhaps the greatest curse of Sports Illustrated, aside from the much ballyhooed Sports Illustrated Curse in which those (people, teams, institutions, ANYTHING) appearing on the cover find themselves afflicted and free-falling from past glories. For a fan of Sports and Sports Journalism, the vision of one of your loved ones on the high gloss cover is the same as a black cat crossing your path, an old Cajun giving the evil eye, or waking up next to a Jack-o-Lantern. For further proof ask McWriter, his Cubs appeared just before last years playoffs when they were heavy favorites to win the NL. 3 games later and POOF! The Cubs had flaked and the Curse had struck again. 

(Note: I wonder if the curse is reserved for officially mandated Sports Illustrated Covers. Perhaps the black magic resides in the font or layout and not the approving editor. If so, I'm drawing up SI covers for the Celtics, Red Sox, Kenny Powers, and Rush Limbaugh) 

The other curse is the same dooming journalism as an entire industry. It comes too damned late. Just yesterday I received my weekly allotment. It comes on Wednesday in Los Angeles, a day earlier than in Detroit but it was too late. The latest issue featured an article (Check it BRYAN!) on Lamar Odom and issued a parable of wisdom that amounted to the beauty of running away from it all, turning off the phone, and experiencing great silence. 

On St. Patrick's Day Afternoon, I received a call from the ignominious Hoopster. Crestfallen at the elusive nature of Young Ladies he regaled with a tale of being left alone in a Hotel Room. If a geographic locale ever threw salt into the wounds it was this: the room was in Ohio. I guess I said some stuff. I guess it was pretty good, good enough to warrant a call from Hoopster saying "You make me feel bad and good at the same time. I'm sorry for always calling you with my troubles." Keep calling Pete. Someday Sports Illustrated will come at the right time and the wisdom of Lamar Odom can prompt a night of reflection and reverie. 

I am always happiest in the home of another, at least until it becomes to feel like home. I am a goofball, a rollicking bag of adventure, impressions, sad soliloquies, and other traits that supposedly make me feel like me. I am surrounded by friends, wonderful beautiful friends. If not for ya'll I would have in total honesty lost part of my soul. They're wonderful people each and everyone of them. We're a clique all our own, a new archetype that spins universes and funny pictures instead of discussing things we saw on television. 

When my friends leave home, for Spring Break on this occasion, I like to slink into their homes, inhabit their spaces, and slink into their essences. This is a task best done quietly, with few others around but I doubt you'll find another tactic that caresses with such catharsis. In January, I was my Dad. Last May, I was Jeff somedays, Nico others, but found it oddly difficult to assume the domain of Brock (In fairness, the room was a hybrid between him and McWriter and had the lingering sour stench of the lovelorn. It was however, a great room for reading.) 

I have just been informed that I have done something terribly wrong. I'm so so so sorry. During this sojourn, I've decided to become Paul Gleason, my friendship infatuation du jour. Brock just stumbled in from break and informed that Paul is extra sensitive about his things. I listened as I typed on his computer, his pride and joy, neglecting to inform that I was wearing one of his shirts. 

Paul, I hope this doesn't cause a rift in our friendship, because to emit it honestly, you're my new hero. I want to study under your care, not the specifics but the energy, the unassuming ball of ebullience. 

Paul's room is designed to soothe. It is lacquered in like the surface of the tide when seen from the Santa Barbara Mountains. Some pools are dark and foreboding, advising one of the depths below. Other panels are an electric baby blue. In between the panels, the trim is painted white. THE TIDE. There is an overhead light but I don't use it because if I were to have a list of things I hate it would be as follows. 

1. Abusing substance without reason but submitting to the compulsion. 

2. Going to a party and being forced to watch Youtube from politeness more than interest. This is inevitable. If one shows a video, natural instinct is to one up, leading to a defacto film festival of News Cast Farts and Kanye West Music Videos. 

3. Overhead light from above like God, blathering light into every crevice, making us all appear a bit uglier. 

Thankfully, Paul's room has an abundance of colored lamps. It would be a good place to smoke Hookah in. There are also two comfy chairs. 

Adorning the walls is a mix of framed pictures of personal importance and typical posters (Hendrix, The Beatles, Homer Simpson) that are hung unapologetically and thus beautifully. Everyone watched the Simpsons growing up. I hang with a gang of filmmakers. The influence is strong enough to nearly tinge every character yellow but when Groening's gift is brought up it is almost certainly to opine the show's (questionable) downfall. Paul parades this love for what it was, what it is, and that's makes all the difference. 

The influence of Paul, coupled with a fruitless job search that made me doubt I'd ever evolve from this creature, shed soft light onto the disconnect I have with my past. I consider past triumphs, even the recently completed novel, as creations of a different being exclusive to the moment of germination. Living isolated in the moment is no way to live. Over the past few days, this realization has spurred an onslaught of selfish behaviors indicative of, well, kind of a dick (I'm sorry Bryan!) but I'm surrounded by people constantly and having cast myself as an attention grabbing hog, I am too weak to demure from playing my role. It gets tiring and loads on an obtuse pressure to perform. I believe that, if given attention, one has a nearly moral obligation to entertain but do it enough and it becomes vapid. 

Last week, I had the first reading of my novel The Giant Explosion That Killed Everyone, perhaps the nearest and dearest endeavor of my short life. The novel had many goals, some of which are still being unearthed, but paramount was: to chronicle the feelings, fears, hopes, thoughts, and inklings that make up the current me (at least in that moment). If you are close to me and reside in the greater Los Angeles area, you were there. I thank you so much. I look forward to conversation and criticism from you all upon the book's reading but at the reading, the book's baptism if you will, I was too jittery to read with any confidence. No amount of Franzia could cool my nerves so I read to get through it, even skipping one of my favorite passages out of fear of boring or offending Li Lu. Only when Jeff, Heidi, Brock, Nico, and Nick read could I be proud of it. Once I was out of the spotlight. Once I wasn't, like so many times before, preening for approval. 

Things are different now. By becoming Paul, albeit for a few days, I've rediscovered the home within myself. Food tastes better, the breeze feels cool against my skin, etc. Today, for the first time since viewing Wall-E and Dark Knight this past summer, I enjoyed a film. My life, impending homelessness, and RV aspirations coalesced into dust and wisped away into the darkened theatre. 

Paul, whether you know it or not, my respect and love for you has skyrocketed. Your space is you while my space at home is covered in old bowls of Macaroni. My sincerest hopes for this life. 

1. Be happy and human through good food, company, and athletics 

2. Step foot on every continent and collect a vial of soil. 

3. Live with Tess someday. 

4. Don't be an old bowl of Macaroni

5. Hand out a flower a day for a year. 

Thanks Paul. I feel like I've been meditating but I've only been watching the Simpsons.