I recall the halcyon days of High School. In particular, I remember the particularly bland days of Sophomore Year. I'd yet to fall in with the film crowd (ie Nick & Dan) and dedicated large chunks of time to playing 3 on 3 basketball games for Pizza Hut Pizzones. I was without a car or money, so my unveiling my predatory basketball skills was my best way to procure the new confection. I'm always up on the new confection as evidenced by my favorite game of trying a new food daily. Budgetary constraintz have limited this goal but yesterday I managed to nick a bagel stick with a premeditated cream cheese filling. The future's an amazing place. One day bagels lead the snack world in vibrancy. Tomorrow? Wall-E will be courting yours truly.
I spend a lot of time with past incarnations of Joel Walkowski. If unguarded I find myself falling into the egocentric Director of 2004 and with the NBA playoffs (blase but still the NBA playoffs) airing nightly I revisit the Charles Barkley entranced six-year-old of June 1993.
I'm still watching basketball even though it's the same old show. Charles Barkley retains the same tongue-lashing presence as he had during his playing days. Maybe even more so despite his recent DUI arrest because he was en route to "the best blowjob of his life". It's the same feeling aside from just Barkley. I've dabbled pretty seriously in both film and writing. My obsessive nature pushed this on me b/c I didn't want to pull a Tennis Player and get burnt out too young. Coming out on the other side, I'll gladly declare film the Winner. I believe the best book is better than the best movie due to the self-reflexive nature of the beast. What book's lack? Chill moments. I saw Star Trek the other night. I don't know Spock from a Frock. My interest: I kinda like space. Stars are cool and such. They glow, we rotate around them, Heidi's Dad managed to make a career out of it. The film blended a fun plot with philosophical ramifications, giving pastiche in hard-bodied young actors. The creamy brown thighs and lightning blue eyes were secondary to moments beyond the film, far from the story, moments in which you care not for context and feel a physical sensation from the on screen splendor. It can come in a jaw drop, a shiver down your spine, or a seizure if you're an epileptic unfortunate enough to view Pokemon: The Movie in theaters. The closest a book'll give is a paper cut.
Without fail the whirl and wizardry of pregame Motion Graphics gives me a case of the ol' shudders. I'll never understand the full significance of Romans going to cheer their Gladiators for regional prominence and the wine-soaked orgies that followed, but these pregame hi-jinks make me happy to be an American, striding the couch with FunYuns in hand. Viewing a game is an all-too-often fruitless activity but the pageantry never lets down. Witness the first two minutes of this clip from the 1993 in question.
It worked then and it works now.
The primary reason I like Sports is that, unlike other cultural sticking points such as films and comic books, the designation of Hero and Villain is yours to choose. Even better, you get to watch their exploits play out in a real time Universe with graphic pizazz dictating the action. I watch these games with envy, confined to the solitary life of a quasi-artist but why can't it be like that. If you want to embarrass me bring up a Dearborn Press and Guide article written on me in my Senior Year of High School after I won some video competition. I'd yet to throw down with Brock or think about what I was doing, I just knew I enjoyed it. This naivety produced the quote "I just want to live in a cave and emerge every few years with something great...like Stanley Kubrick." Ha! Dare I point out the level of douchery, single-mindedness, and utter disgust of such a statement? Art is a beautiful collaboration. Without a career in Sports, I clung to art for the challenge, creative free flow, and camaraderie above all else.
When you're young and hang out with another, interactions are limited to watching a screen, playing a popular game, etc. Then you get a car. In my case the car was a 1993 Mercury Villager that instantly became my domain. I took out the back seats for Hay and a bowling ball. Days were spent tooling around Detroit with Dan and Nick by my side. The criteria established in the Van was to weird out others, make a nuisance, and generally feel free at the expense of other's comfort. We were nearly arrested many times. It was wonderful.
Outsiders would witness our antics (applauding other drivers at stoplights, parking on a dark street and honking until lights came on, etc.) and respond "You're going to get shot."
That might be the case. After speaking jibberish to a bystander the other night, that journalistic rabblerouser Hoopster, pressed me to explain my actions.
"I don't know. A great big feeling wells up and the weirdness is impossible to contain. It's pretty self serving but it makes the world, albeit only slightly, a more interesting place."
Yeah...uh...ok.
Last night, I was headed home from a Tenori-On session when a pedestrian crossed my path. "Bork!" I cried. "Bork! Bork! Bork! Bork!" The man didn't respond and I skipped into the night. A few houses down, I heard heavy footsteps behind me. It was him! I thought of running but was too far gone in confusion to flee. He was gaining quick so I turned around to face him. He was one of those fellows with hair of string indicative of a hard-scrabble blue collar life. He was smaller by miles but I was the one who was scared. Something animalian was in his eyes.
"I thought you called my name."
"No man. I'm just being weird y'know."
"You sure you weren't calling my name."
"No I was thinking of these creatures I created called Borgs so I started making Bork noises."
"Ok."
He started walking in front of me. He was wearing headphones. I let him continue two houses in front of me. When I reached my house he stopped. Ears filled with metal, I don't know how he heard me. He turned around, his profile glinting under the Sodium Streetlight. I ran inside, locked the door. I went to the basement window. He was still watching.
I fear I struck him on some unknown level prompting his return. Perhaps he'll come back, toting a double-barrelled variant of something awful and demand an explanation linking him to "BORK!". I'll only have shrugs and sheepishness. Maybe he'll shoot.
In closing, I have enough good people to make movies with I think we can manage to be preserved in Motion Graphics before our lot's up.
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