R.I.P. MJ

Yesterday, circa 6PM.

I was lolling around the house and toying with a basketball when I decided to head to the kitchen. Before I could arrive in the kitchen, an electricity burst through my being, freezing me in place. The feeling spread through me. I couldn't move or see. If it hadn't been for the chance of laying a hand on a nearby chair, I would've fallen over; collapsing on the carpet to be licked by a dog. The feeling escalated. My eyes went blind and my mind was immersed in a blitzkrieg white aura of electric light. I'd felt this feeling before--when nearing mortality's edge.

I was terrified when I emerged. Fearing another medical episode was near I stood completely still for several minutes. Then I received a text message. Like a good citizen of the 21st Century and Pavlovically programmed to boot, I went over to check the text. It was from my Mom. "MJ had died."

I'm pretty sure I felt him pass.

Weird.

Goodbye Michael.

I'll remember dancing to Motown as a little kid, throwing myself against the couch cushions to the sounds of his pre-pubescent voice. Michael was the definition of Superstar as I came up. His aura and presence, made the world a far more interesting place. Listen to some early Jackson 5. Hear his tender-sweet voice on ABC or Rockin' Robin. The sounds are synesthetic. I know those emotions, the experience of being a heart-broken phenom is close at hand. It's impossible not to be thankful for such a person's existence.

From finding the Great Narrative in Earth Song to dancing with 12 years olds, Michael's been in the musical landscape.

Blare Beat It and wave goodbye to the soundtrack of our lives.

Call Wacko!

I recently found something that filled a profound gap in my existence.

When I threw up blood I happened to throw up blood on my favorite pair of black basketball shorts. I would've proudly worn my bloodshed but Brock and Appu have higher standards for my sartorial choices and opted to throw them out. Since I don't cash my paychecks I spent today conniving a way to obtain a pair of black basketball shorts. Then, I found a pair on the basketball court. Wee!

That's not what I meant to talk about it all but things escape sometimes, like dreams in the night.

The profound gap in my existence has been filled by an intern. My intern is Nick Olah. So far his responsibilities have included discussing the NBA Draft and making prank phone calls for legitimate business reasons. He's leaving a negligible effect on the finished product as am I in a weird way but his presence alleviates the monotony of waiting in a library or filling a prescription. Crossing the lakelike threshold of a business day in Michigan Summer Swelter, we move with brisk business like strokesm, flecking the day with fun by way of sojourns to Arby's for free Arby's. (Blogging about Arby's is copyright of Beavette).

Today. We were picking up a prescription when a Yellow Pick-Up Truck caught our attention. Emblazoned on the back of the pick up truck was a Demon with an eye popping out of his socket. It dangled down to a small logo that read "Call Wacko" then listed a phone number.

We called Wacko immediately. He picked up with a voice that sounded like Malt Liquor. "What's up dude?" was his trademark beckon. Nick asked "What's up?" Nothing was going on with Wacko.

We called again. I discussed the possibility of him doing a "tatt-oooooo" of the Hindenburg on my back. He was a perceptive listener at first but my flamboyant pronounciation of "tattoo" drew his scorn. He swiftly hung up returning to waxing his boat, gelling his goatee, punching Dogs, and other activities of the Wacko. The Wacko does not tread lightly. He moves through this life, taking his desires and no prisoners. Sex on the first date? Never. Wacko has sex before the first date, before he even meets you. That's how the Wacko rolls.

His football shaped eyes are that of an Artist. His football shaped gut is that of a Patriot. He smokes Camel Wides as he swims in above ground pool. He has had fourteen tattoo removal surgeries so he can "redo the canvas with sum current shit." He's removed an American Flag for Ronald McDonald. The portrait of his mother has been editied into Brandon Inge. Brandon Inge is the troll-like Third Baseman for the Detroit Tigers. Before this season his bat left something to be desired but his hustle and defensive acumen have branded him as a "scrapper", a status that nestled him between the clogged arteries of White Trash Hearts throughout Southeastern Michigan. Inge is having the best season of his career, elevating him to deity status. Since season's inception Wacko has added wings, horns, and a spatula to his Inge tattoo.

I called Wacko again. It went straight to voicemail.

"This is Wacko. You know what to do."

Yes I do. All thanks to you.

Viva La Responsibilite

After spending the regular season and playoffs in the guise of a fan aspiring to be a Sports Writer, I've shelved this approach of witnessing. As it stands, I've viewed every game on the NBA finals through the Imagivision, which is similar to Disney 3-D in it's impressive composition. This seat (the best in the house) allows me to enjoy the game while paying no attention as I shift into long-winded bullshit with comrades.

Examples of potential bullshit:
-Trying to make the most disturbing drawing I can. Asking Heidi to do the same. Hanging drawings on the refrigerator.
-Debating how much pizza to get.
-Wondering why humans enjoy sports?
-Debating the foundation of ambition.

Now, if there was one thing I could be it'd be a professional athlete. First, playing games is fun. Second, you get to do so in Arenas brimming with fans, their screams forever distorting your sense of hearing but exacerbating your sense of self. Third, you get to look cool doing it. Dwight5 Howard wears an array of arm bands that provide no medical need but make him look buff. I do the same thing. Serious pick up football games are played on the Weekends in Dearborn. As the biggest player and best receiver, I dress to intimidate and scare, often opting for a Women's Lions Tank Top. It is the rare item that can make a man appear buff while accentuating his cleavage.

The best moments come chasing down a stray ball. These are bliss like only Joshua Tree or Skylake can provide but they aren't what I get excited about. When I imagine these games the lot of us are dressed like warriors, engaging in camraderie, etc. In short, we act like morons. Sheltered kids making believe to become football players.

I write. I want to be a writer. I try to only write when I'm feeling inspired. This helps the writing but does not help me become a writer. I'm pretty obsessed with purity. I've played the game of wanting to become something and found it extremely unsatisfactory. This is why I haven't sent the novel out. It's also part of the reason I'm living in my Mother's basement. Doing things for the right reasons? Honoring thy muse? What's the importance of all this except to self-sanctify?

The world is open to possibility. This lends itself to ambition. Ambition usually comes in two forms. 1) I enjoy doing something and want to make a career of it. 2) I'd like to be something. It seems cool and would maybe help me get laid.

I'm a big proponent of number one but it is called into question. Last night, I was thinking of all the roles within the Earth. Filmmakers produce visual media for others to intake. Mailmen distribute our memos. Computer Technicians do something vague that no one actually understands. With infinite cogs it is noble to deem a role as your path or is it better to fall into it? Human beings do a lot of strange things. If you were to forget all and see civilization as it sprouted would you ever imagine that this is what we become? Operations have shifted to super-scale with everyone more or less playing the game of reputation. This used to be the thing I feared most about becoming. Why not? They are making movies of Board Games! Board Games!

I'm not sure I can express this thought. I'll just be someone and my standing will tell it for me.

Hey Ross!