Oh Hello there. This is Joel Walkowski coming straight at you from the suburban muckrake of Dearborn, Michigan. I'm living in my Mother's basement, playing basketball with high school kids despite my inability to run. In a silver lining after 18 years of hoopin' up I've discovered the delicate art of the jumpshot by way of muscular atrophy and David Foster Wallace's tennis racket romanticism. You are a body. Everything you touch is part of your body. Yuk yuk yuk. There's a nice peace in my body, a quiet sobriatic hum that requires no coffee to wake up and infuses all physical exertions with a near-constant echo. I'm not sure of grammatical rules. I've got 750 pages left to read.
On Saturday, the NBA playoffs begin. I'll be watching alone and abandoning the ritual of cottonmouthed bliss on the living room floor. It should be a good one. The great narrative is in full swing with gladiators vying for their slot in the pantheon and requisite bounties of endorsement money. LeBron James endorses lawn mowers. Lawn mowers. If he wins the title, what'll come next? LeBron James: the official basketball player of Brock Alter's facewash? LeBron James: Jeff LaPenna's official masseuse. I drop the name of friends in this interval because of homesickness and a tough goodbye. Oh well. I constrained most of the tears, smuggled what I needed to smuggle and found a baggie of cocaine in the airport's terminal. Of course, the suddenly pseudo-upstanding man that I am discarded it. Note: sorry McWriter. I could've saved it but I didn't know GirlTalk's next tour dates.
The Day Never Ended
13 years ago
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