Shameful Pride Part I- SO DAMNED HAPPY

Author's Note: For the past few months all things Hindenburgian have been neglected. Capturing decaying cities and eroding into the Vallejo lifestyle consumed all aspects of existence. I'm back with guns blazing and eyes aglaze to bring you...ANOTHER SPORTS POST! Fuck it. I ain't even ashamed. Days like today are the reason why I'm in love with antics of mongoloid 1 athletes. 

1 The word choice of "mongoloid" has a nice cadence but otherwise makes no sense. It means Asian. My preference for Asian Women does not extend into the athletic realm. Otherwise Jerseys of Dat Nguyen and Ichiro would hang in my closet...if I had a closet.2

2. Clothes are kept in a bin that lives in the back of my van. 

*****3

3 Typing those five stars again felt damned good. I haven't written anything with passion in months. I'm glad to have this piece of my soul back. 

OK. The post starts here. No more messy footnotes.4

4 I mean it. 

*****

Have you ever experienced the feeling of shameful pride? I first felt this emotional phenomenon in the presence of the great Ben Zurawski. My fellow Pollack came to visit me in Chicago, where I'd been studying animation and petty crime with great ardor. We went to an Italian restaurant in Wrigleyville. As I recall both the meal and service were quite excellent. Upon exiting the restaurant we were startled to find that an Eve 6 concert had sprung up during our meal. Neither of us had much appreciation for Eve 6. In fact, we rather hated them. Still, we were happy to see them live. Ben summed up the experience as "the first time I've ever felt shameful pride."

I got hungry last night. Wanting a nosh I drove to Taco Bell at 3:30 in the AM, ordering a Burrito and a Bacon Flavored Quesadilla. The clerk asked if I wanted any sauce. My reply was something to the effect that I'm too lazy to open sauce packets. She joshingly offered to open the sauces for me. I agreed. 

"Are you serious?"

"If it's not too much trouble. I'm sorry. I just can't pass this up."

She opened three sauce packets and handed them to me. I tried to read the labels and dropped one. I gave her a helpless look. She reciprocated with a decidedly unmerry laugh. I paused to emphasis my seriousness. She opened another packet, placing it in my palm. 

"Don't drop this one." Why? She would've given me another. I drove home, hoping to brag to Jeff. I pride myself on a library of bizarre human experiences that I share in moments of bliss hoping my friends will nod before reveling in the World's Weirdness. 

The Taco Bell Packet Fiasco is a classic strange experience but falls short due to lack of innocence by those involved. Though proud of the packets I felt like a real douche as well. 

. On one hand I felt cool and cocky in a Ferris Bueller sort of way. On the other hand, I made a minimum-wage employee of Taco Bell open my sauce packets for me in exchange for a smile and a bit of playing dumb. It was outwardly manipulative and rude. The sort of thing a person shouldn't be proud of. The sort of thing Dan Lawlor lives for (he makes this a beautiful art form...just ask The Wacko). 

I still thought it was cool. 

Shameful pride. 

Being a Detroit Lions fan makes me feel the same way. 

Jeff doesn't like Sports and the dogs don't speak yet so I don't talk about Sports with too many people. Having spent an inordinate amount of my upbringing discussing sports with Nick, the Scaramuccis, Bryan, and Tom Guttenberger5

 5. Dear Tom, 

If you ever google yourself and end up reading this I hope you aren't too weirded out. Afterall, we haven't talked since Junior Year of High School when I turned into the Dearborn High Weirdo. I probably seem like that same weirdo for mentioning you in this blog about Taco Bell when we haven't spoken in seven years. Nonetheless,   I heard you're doing well.  Our Moms are in the same Water Aerobics class together. From what I gather the women in these classes wade around the water and gossip about their sons. Mrs. Scaramucci is in the class as well. That's how I found out about David Scaramucci getting a girlfriend.6  Actually, Mrs. Scaramucci is as well. It's kind of weird that of the 5 people mentioned in the sentence in question (six if you include David Scaramucci and not just John Scaramucci) that 60% of them have mothers in the same water aerobics class.)7 

6. My mom found out and called me. I care more about David Scaramucci's love life (Beav and Beavette 4 life) than I will ever care about my own. 

7) The class instructor is Mrs. Knox. Her son Kevin was my boss at Ford. Our relationship had a  lot of shameful pride in it. EX: He once defended me for refusing to wear socks to work. 

That got away from me but here's the gist. Though I don't discuss sports there is still a wealth of sports related conversation inside me. If I hear the faintest mention of sport I will suddenly inject myself into the conversation. I have shameful pride for this as well. A) I get to talk Sports B) I'm the weirdo who harasses you about the Cover-2 Defense in the produce section of the grocery store. 

People are usually nice enough to include me in the conversation. It's amiable until I mention my love for the Detroit Lions. This always makes people smile. They shake their heads in disgust, usually uttering something along the lines of "that's tough". 

But is it?

Ohio State University recently published a study of Sports Fan Psychology. The study concluded that those with the most negative emotions towards their team derive the most enjoyment from their fandom. 

Full Results Here

I'd agree. 

Roughly 1989

My Dad (love you) sits my 3 year old self before the television and puts on the television. I didn't understand what football was yet I was transfixed by the brilliant blurs of green. From that day forward, Fall Sundays were reserved for watching Lions Football. I started learning. The blurs became people. I saw Barry Sanders. The people became poetry. Then, at the same juncture that they became part of me, the Lions became terrible. Real terrible. It's no exaggeration to say the Detroit Lions are worse at being a professional football team than any other business is at any other thing. The ineptitude induced riots. Granted they were in Detroit but still. 

I haven't faltered in my fandom. I guess shittiness transfixes me. Fans of good football teams like to argue and prove points. That isn't necessary when you can only cheer ironically. Life had a great running joke. Saviors would come, regimes would change but nothing ever brought much hope. I felt honored to cheer for such a team. If a Special Olympian wandered into the real thing wouldn't you pull for him? 

This morning brought the same motions. Down 24-3 before my first cup of coffee, I could do little but stare bleakly. The scarlet letter's no trouble but having it stitched on each Sunday still blows. I swore them off for the ninth time this year. Then the amazing happened. We won. It wasn't even a fluke. We stormed from behind, overcame adversity, and found a hero in young Matt Stafford. I've seen plenty of great games but never from my team. Details

I feel elated and confused. Sure beats shameful pride. 

A Long And Winding Letter To My Friend Bryan Hood Regarding The Atrocities Concerning The Bazooks, My Fantasy Basketball Team...

Author's Note: The following is a long winded argument on the behalf of my fantasy basketball team & the true nature of reality. It is also an epistle. Due to these flagrant offenses against common interests it should not be read by anyone.

Dear Bryan,

I know you could sense it. My NBA Fandom slipping away in the throes of adulthood. I accepted an Olive Branch to your Fantasy Basketball League not realizing you'd conspired with David Stern and the bodies governing MCLs, Wrists, and Andrew Bogut.

You can connive all you want. I've forgotten to play Fantasy B-Ball due to other activities (namely: starting a team for my trailer park and building shrines for my Dad as he entered into heart surgery). Once my life had been dealt with I got around to checking my roster. Kevin Martin, Michael Redd, Andrew Bogut, and Mehmet Okur are all down for an extended count. Three crushing injuries. It would be four but my census decries Bogut and Okur as the same person.

I'm battered. I live in a Trailer and eat out of garbage cans. My scent is now rancid. My hair now frayed. But fuck that noise. I, Joel Walkowski, like many before me--including Hannibal Lecter--have retreated from our world into the sojournist library universe constructed by my mind's eye. This dimension is a good place to be. It is far from Vallejo. A dog's single gesture is accompanied by a thesis text on Canine Development. Instantly browsed, downloaded, and placed in a fireproof box for nowhere is safe from fire. Also in this dimension: lots of gravy, drunk for celebration in lieu of Whiskey. The world reserves gravy for meat and milks. The kitchen of my mind, manned by a bewildered seventeenth century Squaw, stocks the pantry with gravies for all foods and most concepts.

I do not want to leave this place. I want to stay and happily wither. You, Bryan Allejandro Bianco Domino Pachinko Hood, have ruined this, rousing me into reality by the stone cold hand of your Yahoo Sports and the nefarious AutoDraft, incarnate of unhappiness.

At the time of our draft I was busy whittling ships. Of course not actually whittling ships. Activities are passe. Conceptual Activity is the new black. I will now close my eyes and count to ten.

1
2
3
4
Nebraska
5
6
7
8
9
10

A new pair of loafers now flanks my feet. Not actually but enough for warmth.

No one could blame me for missing the draft but Yahoo AutoDraft has no space for forgiveness. Looking at my team, I survey a series of wonk busting misfits, a loosely guilded & muchos uninspired collection of the 2005 Phoenix Suns but only the dregs. Amare, Marion, Barbosa. Give me a time machine and we're even. Goggles and all Amare's a skunk. Marion's gifts are manifested in Dallas with Dirk but the apparition, now satiated on success, has vanished from the box score. Barbosa? I'm fairly certain he was kidnapped over the summer. Steve Kerr and other dunderheads atop the Pyramid (scheme- R. Sarver) have yet to notice and I am the victim.

Insults are not limited to the Seven Seconds or Less Canon as the rest of my roster looks like this:

G
Leandro Barbosa
(Pho - PG,SG)
31%-----------SG
Peja Stojakovic
(NO - SG,SF)
AtlW, 96-8854%.4171.0005.71417431000G
Ronnie Brewer
(Uta - SG,SF)
DetW, 100-9744%.500.5000-15533120SF
Shawn Marion
(Dal - SF,PF)
64%-----------PF
Jason Thompson
(Sac - SF,PF)
@HouL, 113-10672%.500.7500-15540120F
Anderson Varejao
(Cle - PF,C)
PhiW, 97-9131%.0001.0000-4720200C
Andrew Bogut
(Mil - C)INJ
@MemW, 103-9863%--0-0000000C
Mehmet Okur
(Uta - PF,C)INJ
DetW, 100-9776%--0-0000000Util
Jeff Green
(OKC - SF,PF)
57%-----------Util
Michael Redd
(Mil - SG,SF)INJ
@MemW, 103-9848%--0-0000000BN
Kevin Martin
(Sac - SG)INJ
@HouL, 113-10630%--0-0000000BN
Chris Bosh
(Tor - PF,C)
74%-----------BN
Amar'e Stoudemire
(Pho - PF,C)
57%-----------


Cruel Karma made this construction.

Peja Stojakovic: His bust is being blazed for Springfield as basketball's pompadoured answer to baseball's Steroid Superstar.
Ronnie Brewer: So inconsequential that if he fell in the woods with millions watching and an army of Sennheisers and Sony 744's recording there would be no noise.
Anderson Varejo: We all agree that he is the enemy.

My sole salvation is Mr. Chris Bosh, coming to my aid with contract year nightlies of 27 and 12. He loves the Internet. He loves my team.

I must run. My Sunday morning is busy with Detroit Lions football followed by handfuls of pills. I'm not going back to my universe. My team is in last place. Seeing the circumstances--a last place team--I have no choice but to engage my reality and set you in my sights.

Godspeed.

We Own The Night Starring Scatman Crothers

Did you know…
…The Atlanta Hawks are doing surprisingly well this year.
And that my roommate is from Atlanta
A City in Georgia
Referred to in nomenclature as the A-T-L
Yet no one in the Tall Trees Trailer Park will play a game of catch with me.
And that the office number of Tall Trees is
707-252-7247

The preceding paragraph was probably an easy read and slightly enjoyable at that. However, punch packed by the prose is nil, if any, for none of the aforementioned facts carry any weight, significance, or bearing on your being.

It’s been like that lately. In a lot of ways. I can’t help but feel that the world—even things I love—is comprised of commodities composed to be as frivolous as engineering can allow. This perspective cannot be unseen by the mind’s eye. See it once, even a glance, and the rest of your visage will be a smidge smudged.

I love football more than all but four things. A few Sundays prior I thought to myself, “what a silly game”. Loving gridiron warfare I proceeded forward and watched Matthew Stafford toss interceptions with reckless abandon (like the warehouse fires mere blocks from his home field) but I couldn’t shake my notion. My vision was altered. The lines (1080p) blurred as I stared at a muted image for no reason whatsoever.

I don’t identify with this. It isn’t me.

That being said I’ll be up early to watch the Lions tomorrow.

You don’t have to identify with all you love but a basic humanity would be nice.

I fear I am not making sense. Let me digress. Here is a meaningless bit of my past.

I used to be obsessed with Tom Green. By obsessed I mean crazed, driven stark mad with idiosyncratic, constant impersonation obsession. I’d watch his show (the aptly named Tom Green show) before terrorizing my middle school teachers by turning their classrooms into a debauched series of reenactments.

The apex of my obsession came with “The Bum Bum Song” in which Mr. Green rubbed his bum (or buttocks) on various objects while narrating his escapades over a crisp hip-hop beat. I believe he wore a prosthetic rear as well. In anycase, a music video was made. I’d tune into MTV’s Total Request Live, watching as the video for the Bum Bum Song ascended the ranks of some obscure database fueled on misplaced teeny-bopper adulation.

Tom Green retired the video after it reached number one on TRL.

I thought this was a poetic gesture.

In all likelihood it had much more to do with commerce. While a cute piece of self-promotion for MTV, the Bum Bum Song did not serve the musicmakers MTV was designed to serve. TLC was molded for world domination. Taking a backseat to a rubber bum could not have been a merry blow. The same goes for “NSync even though they were formed to perfectly emulate Orlando. They succeeded in this. If you think teenage girls went crazy for ‘NSync than you’ve never seen a young girl visit Orlando. Nor have I for that matter but I can imagine.

The Bum Bum Song was a trill piece of trash. By believing in this song and Mr. Green’s efforts I was mitigating the self, extinguishing the fire from which are souls are dredged.

*****

My goal is to do things humans ought to do.

On this note:

My new dream is to walk for twenty-four hours straight. When the hands of the clock complete their second cycle, I will lie down and rest, regardless of where I am. Be it street or subway, I will slumber.

The world belongs to us all.

I’ll be taking my piece later this week. Let’s say Thursday. Join me. Do whatever you can to do whatever it is you want.

See you bitches in Valhalla.

PS Haven’t written much lately. 2
about the rust. I could’ve been doing a lot—like self promotion!—but I’d rather do nothing than bullshit.

PPS Buy Typing With One Hand by Hoopster Jurich.

I Had to Concentrate to Stare at The Light

I had to concentrate to stare at the light. At the center it was a wash of white, details indistinguishable, clearly the source, but nothing clear about it actually; outwards came a reality forced upon me – that I did not choose to see, not consciously at all, but its luminance projected before me the world all around. My eyes showed me the light was there. My mind told me it was true. I had to concentrate.

I had to concentrate to stare at the light. There was no detail in its center and my eyes begged the questions, “Where is it? What are we looking for? Why must we look for it?!” – and my mind said only, “Try,” for my mind was confident and also curious. They gave it their best, my eyes, they glanced steadfast and they glared, ignoring the sense of pain (that was only fake), arisen of the inability to see all they intended, and indeed they were not good enough.

I had to concentrate to stare at the light. This challenge became more difficult for my eyes, and even my mind began losing its confidence for confusion. My eyes, though they refused to turn away from its eminence, the light, it was taking over, and everything that once was clear and visible, now, it was less than so. “Keep trying!” and they did their best to obey – no one able to lend a hand in the endeavor, not my ear, mouth, nose, not my hand, and my eyes continued trying to serve their only purpose.

I had to concentrate to stare at the light. My eyes, well they lost focus, and my mind, it tried to compensate. Where they lost details my mind filled in the gaps, when colors blurred my mind tried again to separate them, and when reality faded… my mind insisted. My eyes were gone, and “it” was up to it: my mind.

I had to concentrate to stare at the light. My mind surrendered my eyes because they did not function. My mind. The light. Alone in that moment were my mind, the light. My mind; the light. My mind – the light. My mind: the light. The light: my mind. Everything and nothing became the same white color, and it was only that color that became at all. “White.” Thought. My mind. “White.”

I had to concentrate to stare at the light. No more did even time exist. The light. It was not. Anything. My mind. Thought. It did not. All that was was only what it was, and not anything more (no less), and there I was also, just sitting, and being; I was, it were, not concentrating, not staring, not anything: not anything in front of a light. Then, my eyes, they focused on the tip of my nose. My mind - it followed.

I am staring at the tip of my nose, though there’s barely enough light to see. My nose – it breathes out. My nose – it breathes in.

With A Bloop Scoop, A Chimney Swoop, & A Rudder Full of Mud

Life is happening. All around us. With very little editing and less to be done. I saw an old DVD player strewn about the local Methie's trash heap. A Patrick Swayze DVD (Ghost) was trapped inside. The pottery scene was waiting to be sniggered at but even with a screwdriver I was unable to free the DVD. I could download a torrent or turn on late night cable but it wouldn't be the same.

Do me one favor. Whenever you find a discarded videotape, DVD, CD, book, or any form of communication: give it your time & effort. Listening to the universe bears copious rewards.

The spontaneity of found objects went unmatched by anything on broadcast television...until tonight. There is a show called Taxidermy Trails. The host, Dan Brantley, greets you from 1996. He puts his dogs in a box, puts the box in the back of a pick up truck & drives to the woods for hunting. From there, Mr. Brantley skulks through the underbush until killing something. With the animal dead he hoists it up for a series of comedic poses before gutting the animal and turning it into a piece of art.

Every commercial was for the Pennsylvania Institute of Taxidermy. It wasn't just one though. PIT had 8 commercials for each demographic (including women! Ladies? Not cut out for cosmetology school? Then how bout filleting some foxes?").

I was transfixed by this. As if abducted into the Deep South.

I feel the same way about life right now but can't go any further with this explanation.