A Nice Retort

"My friend is a land octopus.  I first blurted this image/nickname instinctually, and with little preconceived notion of what I meant.  Now, it’s obvious: he moves across our Earth like nothing I’ve ever encountered before, and nothing I could possibly imagine.  He’s someone special and you realize it within a few seconds of his encounter.  This guy is a parade.  If you ask, “What if…?” he’ll do everything in his power to help you find the answer, and more often then not you’ll laugh more than you think, a passenger on his guided tour of life.  His roar is loud. He aims to create experience, both for himself and certainly those around him.  His self is as huge as his smile, and because of this his biggest weaknesses are his biggest strengths.  He is an artist.  He learns as he enjoys.  One day he will be looked at – more than he is now.  Get ready, ‘cuz here he comes." 

-The Cheerleader. 

Thanks. 

The Hell With Calendars And Non Dessert Dates

First and foremost...

Some Hindenburg business to attend to. You might consider this blog "unfocused" or "rambling", but behind the glamour of Liquid Beef Jerky shots, we're working for a cause. 

Welcome back to the fold Sergei. I've been lighting candles for Archie every night around nightfall. There is some cause for worry. As one brother descends from the stratosphere of celebrity, another is beginning his parabola's uphill climb... I recently spotted Archie in the background of a paparrazo-shot Kim Kardashian video. I think he supplies the butt pads. 

Darthmouth, you minx, you dare to call me out. Forgive me if my peace lies in spouting long-winded self-effacing/exalting diatribes. I dig your sentiments, but think of these as my version of your tactics. You have an upcoming book don't you? 

Zen and the Art of Driving Drunk in A Children's Soapbox Derby by Dartmouth Minx. You can't pre-order it on Amazon, but you'll find it in the discount bin of your local anarchist book store in no time. 

In the most important news of the day, a certain prominent African-American has moved past the doubters & allegations and into the Pantheon. Obama? Fuck that. I'm talking about our godfather. Mr. Weezy F. Baby, Lil Wayne himself. 

The long awaited Carter III has dropped in splendrous fashion. He's recorded the album sixty-five times, releasing sixty-four versions for free. This legit version doesn't disappoint. Father Flow unleashes a furious burst of machismo, genius, and call to arms legitimacy that we should seek out in geniuses of our time. 

Fuck lazy geniuses, Indiana Jones, & the fourth effort of most acclaimed authors (though they may know something I don't). I want my art to challenge me and spring forth with something to prove. I guess I'll have to keep rocking Weezy and watching Kobe. Quit resting on your laurels peeps. 

It's a beautiful NewHindenburg day, especially when Catch Me If You Can is blasting. Back to business...

***** 

I ain't been sleeping much lately. It's cool as hell. I woke up describing Panda Express "that flaccid fake Chinese temptation". Suffice,  I dined at Panda and gave half my food away. 

This inability to grasp what I like is tough, but sort of fun. This morning I discovered that my beloved Pistons had canned our borderline autistic coach, Flip Saunders. Two days ago I heard he was fired, yesterday I heard his job was safe. Hearing this news, I wondered what day it was. 

Everyone knows Deeeeetroit Baaaaaaasketball means entirely too much to me. I try not to let it affect my mood too much, but that doesn't stop the team taking up an inordinate amount of my time, energy, and imagination. 

Stemming from a certain place and leaving it back home, they always bring me back. I remember those days at John's house. The lot of us would assemble to eat a home cooked meal, watch the game from our homemade boat, and pretend we were various Pistons at half time on John's hoop. This ain't nostalgia. This is last year. 

Friends and family frequently forward Youtube videos of the Pistons. Don't they know I've seen them five times already. My opinions of Jason Maxiell's post up game, Amir Johnson's potential, and Rasheed's transmogrifying bald spot could fill a shelf of dream journals. At a certain point you wouldn't even be able to tell I was writing about a basketball team. My prose would seem to revolve around several street-smart cousins. You'd wonder why I never told you more about my harsh upbringing. 

So we fired Flip and hired Michael Curry, a former Small Forward and Current Ambassador for the Nation of Sport. A hiring from within boasts of a quiet confidence, the sort of belief that can be so dangerous it's awesome. 

This is big news for us Pistons fan. It changes the landscape, the team, and who we are. 

What insight was offered? 

"It's cool. I like him because he would only dunk with his left hand." 

"Good hire. He signed an autograph for you when you were thirteen." 

Is this what's become of us? We used to be such good fans, living and dying with the success and hilarity of the team. We're tired now. The team consists of the same tired old muck up, (save for Rip who came through like gangbusters). We watch them, hoping for them to flip the switch, and hoping we'll do the same. I can't help but see myself as a reflection of the team. 

If Chauncey, Rip, Tay, and Sheed have taught me anything it that "if you're good enough. you can dick around and wait until the last minute to succeed." So that's why all those papers got turned in late. 

Our favorite player on the team was Walter Herrman, an Argentinean Center known more for his flowing blonde locks and open collars then any on-court ability. 

Herrman's great. A joy to watch. A wonder to imagine. But if your team is this good, you shouldn't be playing around with the intangible. If the team is that damn good, they should capture your heart and attention. 

They didn't. They spoiled us in the beginning before turning into spoiled, pragmatic brats. As the playoffs played out I found myself paying closer and closer attention to Kobe Bryant and Chris Paul. These two offered so many routes to success, such long and winding narratives, that I feared a Finals Matchup with either. I'm not scared we beat us. I'm scared I wouldn't care when they beat us. 

We are taking a step back, but I'm back on board. A wayward team trying to find it's way? Yeah I can relate to that. 

Next year could be the Rodney Stuckey show featuring an eighth seed in a weak conference. 

I can't wait. 

Phone Home

Celebritydom was not for me, so I ditched that shit. Tom Selleck was lame, Annie Lebowitz forced Miley Cyrus into hiding, and Jeff Goldblum only hangs out with writers. Fret not though loved ones and acquaintances for I am back. Maybe not on a hourly basis like I should be, but at least from time to time I will continue sprinkle you all with further teachings from the Blessed Pulpit of Sergei.

I have been known to disappear from time to time. I never really thought about it before, but have come to realize it more and more over the last few months. It starts like this, I avoid seeing/calling/texting/emailing/im-ing someone for a day solely because I don't feel like talking at that moment, which then turns into a few days. It's around the one week mark that guilt starts to seep in, but with that comes this almost paralyzing fear that keeps me from calling them back and apologizing for being a flake. The fear is ridiculous (one I know really shouldn't even exist), but it has a weird power on me, and by the time I finally overcome it six months has passed. At that junction, what's the point right? Usually after a few more months though, the old heart strings start tugging and the lameness of missing someone sets in and I finally call them. After a few awkward apologies things continue on--almost just as they were all those months ago--but as nice as they might be you can tell somethings a bit off. You just have to hope that eventually things will go back to the way they used to be, or gotten to the point where you both have moved on and reforged your relationship.

That's sort of what happened with my and Bring Back the Hindenburg these last few months. I got caught up with other things and put the Hindy on the back burner. It's not so much that my priorities were out of order, I just took a couple weeks off and then started to feel shame faced and didn't know what to do, so I sat on my ideas and slowly my presence dissapeared from this forum. Like the people that I eventually regain contact with though, I do care about Bring Back the Hindenburg, whole heartedly in fact. And I am repledging my allegiance. There is no reason I can't fit the Hindy into my day to day or week to week life, and that's what I intend to do.

***

Things I would like to briefly mention:

The Lakers are in the finals. This pleases me to no end. They will of course be playing Boston, a team I am still not impressed with. I would like to they will trounce the emerald clad offspring of a hypocritical city, but I fear that it's just my home team bias coming out. We'll see. Perchance to dream though.

Manchester United won the Champions leauge. This also pleased me to no end, but not more than the return of the person I watched it with. I realize that's way lame but I don't care. Fuck all y'all.

The Carter III is about to drop. I've heard it. It is the truth, much more so than Paul Pierce is. Let's all band together and buy it the day it comes out though. It's like the soundtrack of a Hindenburgian life. Right?

Though I no longer have the ideal summer, it does still kind of technically exist. I wish I could wake up whenever I want and spend all day reading, but it's still cool if a bit hot.

***

Anyway, I'm back. And I'll write to you all soon. It'll hopefully be a bit more fun next time.

The Minx Returns...

Greetings Friends/Fiends, 

Your old pal Minxie is here, back from the prisons of Calcutta to expound truths, slander, and written sodomy on the poor degenerates that frequent this here NewHindenburg. Now I know what you're wondering? How did old Minxie, the Minx himself, named after a prestigious member of the Ivy League, wind up in a Calcutta Prison? 

It's a long story. A fantastic and winding tale that will both amuse and bemuse you. I can't hope to tell my entire tale at this here website (as the amazing nature of it's circumstance defy the confines of the internet. I hate the internet. I believe it to be a scourge, a constant cancer upon man, mankind, and mammals as a whole. However, my good pal Lawlor is quite the fan so I mustn't destroy it...yet). In a nutshell: I went to study the tribes of the Holy Eunuchs. I became enamored and found myself desirous of spreading this blessing in the form of forced castrations). 

ANYHOWWWWWWWWWW... Upon finding my way back to the United States and this here Hindenburg, I was extremely disheartened. Our culture has vanished. Where is Sergei? I know Bryan Hood murdered Archibald Aurelius in cold blood as he teetered on the cusp of recovery. I shed tears over the murder but at the very least, I expected Bryan Anthony Bianco Hood to replace him with his own brand of flannel-wrought idiocy. I was wrong. He has done nothing but dine on caviar and the sweet taste of death since strangling Archibald with his own sacred scarf. The Hindenburg as we know it is dying... Vincent, Jimmy, Jasper, and Curtis... Shame on you! We birthed this out of beauty. Fuck the NBA! The NewHindenburg was going to be where amazing happened. I know we should've never invited you in the first place. Shows what I get for listening to one Bryan Anthony Bianco Hood. 

This began as something beautiful, but we quit along with Charlie. Charlie you coward! How could you give up on the blog? Don't you know that our monikers are our protection? By becoming yourself, by unearthing one Joel Walkowski, you have served our blog up to heathens any where and everywhere.... 

This isn't the NewHindenburg anymore...

If we were true to our objective of chronicling the amazing and all that was right to care about we would have offered up...

3 posts on Josh Hamilton's various addictions.

26 posts for each of Josh Hamilton's tattoos which he gathered in the confines of a tattoo parlor. Since he is the biggest story in baseball and the most redemptive tale since Rabbit Angstrom, many stories are told of him. All of these stories include the anecdote that as the most promising major leaguer since, well... ever, he began to hang around a local tattoo parlor. What the fuck is that shit? Why won't you tell us why the tattoo parlor was that awesome? As far as I'm concerned he got addicted to drugs for good reason. Tattoo parlors are fucking great. I walked past a tattoo parlor yesterday and saw a baby inside. I don't know if he was receiving a tattoo or not but FUCK IT, my belief in America was upheld. 

7 posts on babies

6 1/2 posts on the Enormous Omelette Sandwich

1 post on Mormons/Katherine Heigel/wanting to bone a mormon

15 posts on veal 

2 posts on Abraham Lincoln

3 posts on Mack Strong (just to spite Lincoln's ghost) 

65 posts on gumballs

Whither the Hindenburg. We stand as a paragon of what matters, not as some receptacle for Joel Walkowski to masturbate into. We fucking get it Joel! You're young, you might be gifted, and you're trying to write. 

With all due respect, quit boring the shit out of us. 

Bring Back The Hindenburg.

Indeed. 

5/31 Warm Up: All About My Friends

When embarking on a grand endeavor one must go forth with gusto, throwing caution into the wind and harboring far-strung expectations about one's ability, work ethic, and their joie de vivre. These hopes might not be met on a consistent basis and curses if they are. Jumping into immediate success and the all-encompassing implications will only hold us back. To wit: if we leap in the water with an innate knowledge of the backstroke, we will only swim the backstroke. Even if we become the world's preeminent backstroker, we will only to be able to aid the metaphorical swim team to which we belong in one event (two if the metaphoric swim meet has medley relays). 

This big project at hand. My feeble attempt at fostering whatever lies within myself is not exploding into superstardom in one bold brilliant burst. It comes slowly and painstakingly. We fight for the words, doubt their efficacy upon putting them to paper, and long for that passionate explosion of near genius or at least publishable prose. Work comes long and hard, but I wouldn't have it any other way. 

The process of watching one's abilities grow and flourish is much more fulfilling than expounding greatness at the very first opportunity. Things are uneven and at time's painstaking, but other instances when we grasp what we're trying to do, how such a task will be accomplished, and a various assortment of factors, it is so joyous, one cannot help but dance. 

I spent a good portion of last night dancing to Raffi in my underwear. I imagined Magic Johnson was in my room boogying down with me. It wasn't the old and bloated Magic that mars TNT's NBA broadcasts with stammering and pronunciation of basketball as "basset-bow" but the young, vivacious lad that hung over my bed in my youth. At this moment I remember that the first poster I ever put up on my own was that poster of Magic. It was a replica of an oil painting and my Mom brought it home from her work. 

When you grow up in Michigan, Magic Johnson means a lot. One of my Mother's friends told me that she attended Michigan State University at the same time as Magic (Earvin to his family). Though this woman, Darlene, was constantly around, blighting my seven year old life with her kisses and obese embrace, that did nothing to deter me from asking for her autograph.  

Writing is an obtuse and fickle art form. It is not uncommon for one to toil their entire life without something to show for it. Unlike the visual and musical forms there is nothing ingrained in our instinct to recognize and realize how to put it into use. Reading is a relatively new form. Even if film is a modern invention, humans have been using the sense to survive since the beginning of time. Paint a picture, shoot a shot, and it is somehow innate. Over the course of our specie's existence recognition of sounds and images have been used to help us attain our needs and survive. Medicine was founded in it, it has probably helped shape sexuality as well. 

On the converse: Reading comprehension and writing a good sentence have never helped one survive. I could be misinformed. It is quite possible that Crocodile attacks occur when a Croc takes a man in his jaws and asks him to produce a beautiful limerick and will be eaten if it falls short. 

I'm not trying to say that writing is a more difficult art to conquer or understand. I merely argue that the state (and mindset) required to produce quality written words is slightly scarcer within us (at least within me). 

The work is coming. Coming quite well, but it requires a tedious waiting game that often proves boring or frustrating. When doing something I feel is "good" a certain feeling is close at hand. I will kill time until taken by this feeling. I can give you a rundown of what transpires before and after the feeling but in the grips I remember nothing. I am at my happiest when looking up from the keyboard and realizing that three hours have passed. 

It's getting easier and easier to get there. Learning so much. Happy with every decision so far. For all the trials and tribulations I've put myself through I couldn't see myself doing anything else. To echo sentiments from previous posts I am "following my joy". 

This is my warm up session. 6- 8 hours of writing or thinking about writing wait ahead. I woke up at 3 in the morning (wow what a sleep!) from 9 until 3 with a three hour interruption for a game of ultimate frisbee. 

If you'd indulge me... I'd like to describe my friends to you. I feel the feeling, but only want to do this right now. That's another thing about the feeling. You might conjure it, but you can't control it. You can only go where it lets you. 

On the phone to my mother I described him as "sort of a hippy". This was misspoken. What I meant to indicate was that he possesses a deep calm and happy atmosphere that allows one to feel at home in his presence. I suppose I lumped him into the "drum circle" archetype because of interests, Native American attire, and eating habits. This veneer paints a solid picture of a person but fails to do him justice. A child's zeal and a mathematician's analytical mind are there waiting for you. He also introduced me the "everything bagel", an attribute which cannot be underestimated. Perhaps he escapes in-capsulation. To get the point across: On a lark I called on him for assistance with a large endeavor. This sort of call has been many times, but no one has ever responded like Ball's Deep as he has. 

People are often defined by their facial hair, especially women. He is no woman. He is a man among men. When the follicles on his face rebelled against the norm to form a full fledged beard, his personality coalesced at least as I understand it. There is a rigid masculinity to him, not only in his behaviors (awesome ones) but his beliefs. A code of honor courses through every capillary. Upon entering a constant onslaught of conversation, hints and allusions were made. Putting these pieces together I see a manifesto at work. It's easy to imagine him valiant in Medieval battle or writing a guide to modern man hood. I'll never be a soldier but I'd go to war with him. 

The Cheerleader. The Mother Owl. The purveyor of understanding and weaver of mythologies. He hooks you from the start. Upon first catching his vibe I thought "I hope we become friends". He coaxes one in with humor and a constant desire to understand, learn, and encounter. His approach to friendship is one of family. Good meals, adventures in slew, spend time with him and the world only gets bigger. People are brought in, truths are formed, family is made.  Though he will miss the reference, he is Steve Nash on the fraternity level. Everyone around him is made bigger, better, stronger by his presence. You realize this and hope to do the same for him. We share the same flaws and strengths, because of this we owe it to each other to always be there. 

Six Year Old Muse, jumping off rocks as a Cantonese Shoplifter landing as a Puerto Rican Girl before going to the car as an Old Gypsy. The ultimate chameleon, he shifts day to day, projecting the world and weather on his persona like archaic green screen technology. Six year old boy with rocks in his pockets. Plato on a coke binge. It's hard to make sense of all these persona rattled off with the expertise and confidence of one's true self. Don't try to make sense of it. Just try and keep up. 

It is the rare and important relationship that could benefit from a fist fight. When you reach this juncture of hatred, love, and far reaching history, you know it's special. Like two squabbling chickens astray in Los Angeles, you go about your ways, leading your separate lives and scavenging for your own sustenance. The chickens encounter many terrifying and trying tribulations, but upon getting to the coop and going to roost, they see each other like they see themselves. Things maybe strained but deep down it's always the same: <3>

I saw a television show that really struck me once. People were dying everywhere in a myriad of forms, some beautiful, others ridiculous. As their mortal coil expired, their loved ones came about and waved them over to the next world. Regardless of whatever great people I encounter and uh... fuck... I know he'll be there waving me in next to an elderly Filipino Woman. There's a lot to this one, but that's the thing that matters. My brother, my wife. 

When dark times come and we look over our lives feeling like peonic shit, he is a redemptive factor. I know that if I have a friend so good & honest & pure that I'm doing just fine. He is the rare beacon of calm in this turbulent world, content to sit and smile like a glacier. Each interaction is a blessing. It doesn't matter what, where, who, or how. What matters is the prevalent feeling of peace. Also: homecooked meals, alley-oop passes, and that cherubic smile. 

The Monk sees all. As much as I know/love him, he remains a bit of mystery. From what I can tell he bounces through life with an unmatched gift of gab and insight into any and all things (true or false is none of his concern. His mind revolves around a universe of that one time anyone did anything, baseball statistics, and the literary equivalent of soft core pornography.) He's like a drunk uncle, but sober. He shows up at the family home, giving advice that no one wants to hear because they know it is true. So much strife has been prematurely dammed by his insights. There are many times that I leave him scratching his head but I have an inkling that he knows me better than I know myself. I'm pretty in love with writing these days, but only started when he pushed me.  

The limping vision of young America. If his life could be put in a time capsule and sent to the 22nd Century, our viking warlords would know what life was like as a 21st century youth. They'd ask "why does he walk funny?" and he'd give a remark of trademark caution bearing bite and good humor. He is equilibrium. Cynicism while searching for the silver lining. Affirmation and responsibility. We seem to be going parallel at this point in terms of reinvention, inspiration, and things we enjoy drinking. If unleashed on the future or downtown Las Vegas the world will see him the way I do: a legend in waiting. 

"Like a Gorilla seeing his reflection for the first time". Watching him do anything leaves one in a fog of befuddlement. Listening does the same but you begin to get the picture. K.I.S.S. Loves what he loves, does what he loves. A throwback to the time where men were men and drank whiskey on trains before setting out into some new town to get in bar room scrums and speculate for oil. His company feels like a distinct something but I can't for the life of me figure out what it is, either it's playing professional football in the 1920's or the best day of preschool. After an all night drunk he told me "I have a lot of fun around you." Such a sentiment is innocent and bare bones but hits hard as hell. 

The friendship cloud, the unexalted unicorn. Life is a grand adventure when he's around. Everyday is not just a day, but a joyous occasion fit for dancing. (and it usually involve dancing!) He gives thought where no one else does, bettering aspects and tangents that would otherwise go unnoticed . These displays of camaraderie, these Picassos hung in the dentist's office so to speak, come in such a constant onslaught that it can be tempting to take it for granted. Don't. Mired in a working relationship, it took me too long to think of him as a friend. Now that we're firmly ensconced in the whirling dervish of kinship, furious artistic fights, and facial decorations, I can go back and see us as friends from the beginning, just not ready to fully form yet. C'est la vie. Five Feet. 

Wow. What a warm up. I might be a bit behind in the Fatherly Advice/Kind of Like Giving Birth/211 Lessons (having a hard time picking a title) but who cares? To feel so loved this early in the morning feels better than anything. 

I hope you enjoy. I hope you're able to pick yourself out. It shouldn't be that hard even if I changed Caitlin's gender. 

Joel 

Doctor Bruce!!!!!!!

Sometimes an idea hits like wildfire. You can feel the power coursing through every capillary and wonder (sometimes even aloud) how you ever got along without having it in your life.

In certain rarefied instances, this power is permanent. A change is exquisitely made and life begins a new. Other times, the thought quickly fades, off to be dismissed as a passing fancy or fleeting by product of feelings and contributing factors. There is a third case, the instance where one acts and fails. You see your life, know what it could have been, and wish things would have turned out differently. You tried. You failed. You move on.

I was almost known as "Dr. Bruce." It wasn't meant to be.

*****

A few months ago, when embroiled in University and a passing case of the yellow fever, I put aside my daily dose of fun and got down to business. I was assigned a scene for my "Directing Actors" class and decided to take it seriously. I shot my previous scene in a 45 minute downpour of rain and dick jokes. I spent the entire time yelling at my actor's (my roommates) to stop smiling into the camera.

The scene turned out good, but not good enough.

In order to get anything out of the class I had to dedicate myself to this next scene. In order to understand how a good director works, I had to do something good. I picked my scene by pointing a finger at a friend's book.

I was holding auditions. It was the usual fair (yelling out the window, watching baseball on my computer) until a man named Bruce entered. He handed me a head shot. Browsing this past work and attributes I was struck by a picture of him sitting on the hood of a Porsche emblazoned with Arizona license plates reading "Dr. Bruce".

Then we had this conversation...

"Oh are you a Doctor?"
"Nah. I'm not a Doctor. I tried to get the plate to say "I LUV MUF but they wouldn't let me get it. They're strict in Arizona. I tried "Assman", "Boob job", even "Pssy Kng" but they stopped them all."
"My mom almost had her license plate say clet once. I told her it sounded a lot like clit and she didn't go through with it."
"That's too bad man, she' d have met a lot of men."

I pause for a moment picturing my Mom taking home men she met at stoplights. If they expressed a firm commitment to yard work, she just might.

"So why'd you get Doctor Bruce."
"I just got it man. It works though. I tell girls I'm a doctor and BAM! I'm in. My tags are expiring soon and I have to get it changed to a California plate."

*****

Driving back from an afternoon hike, sitting quietly in the back seat, so Modern Love could have their quiet, my mind began to play. I thought of Bruce and how his approach probably works for him. Then I saw it, burning through my mind, utterly preserved like my first taste of pirogi; the license plate.

Dr Bruce

"When we get home remind me to get a custom license plate."
"What are you gonna get?"
"Dr Bruce"
"Like that one guy?"
"Yeah!"
Laughs erupt. The prospect of getting a vanity plate to cock block a stranger, to steal his aura, and usurp his doctoral authority was too good to be true. Too perfect.

I got home and checked the registry. Dr Bruce was taken.

Oh Bruce! You Minx!

*****

This post was my attempt to satirize myself.

The Fear of Transcending; of Modernity

Dear Friends and Family, 

Why must we pick where we live six months before we live there? 

Why do our friends, family, and geographic origins resonate with us to such an extensive extent? (I guess it's love, but whatevs on that front, love is a bitch. a distracting scourge. a preventative measure against the person we ought to be). 

I see my life, my habits, my Mr. T piggy bank, and I like them all,  but I don't see any truth. Nothing transcends my bullshit, my own fears and insecurities. When things happen, they ought to happen for no reason at all. 

This ain't new, it's old news. 

I had this same thought two years ago in Paris. I was sitting in Gare de Lyon drinking wine and feeling lonely (like usual). I realized that so much of everything was born out of insecurity, born out of fear of failure, burdened by a person's downfalls. 

That ain't how it ought to be. We're better than that. We can do better. 

For no reason at all. 

If you have hope... If you harbor expectations... You're only asking for failure. I don't take Adderall to focus. I take it to feel something. Some emotion, some hope. I know we get drunk, high, and happy creating worlds and realms and all sorts of wonderful things. That ain't enough. 

We can do better. 

We can break free. 

I am in college so that I can someday fulfill my dreams. 

I set aside my time, my money, my energy for a month to fulfill a dream. 

My own idea of myself. It could be beautiful and wondrous.

It was pure ego and self loathing. I couldn't love myself until I finished it. 

That's bullshit, pure conjecture to the highest regard and extent of offensiveness. 

We can do better. 

We can break free. 

My ego has been killing me... All because I dared to dream. Staring at my dream, my future, my passion... I knew I would never get there. At least not like this. Even if I stayed strong, true to myself, loyal to the cause, it'd be nothing but bullshit. If I do it for myself I might as well not do it at all. 

You only tell stories for someone else. 

I don't need to prove anything to myself, save for a clear American determination. 

Why the hell would I do that?

I thought I'd feel something, some underlying force that would make me grow stronger and legitimize all of my failures. 

That isn't what this is about. 

It's about love. 

JOIE DE VIVRE

If not this, then nothing. 

I will not submit myself to goals, ambition, or fears. The only thing worth living for... The only thing that warrants our love is... JOIE DE VIVRE

The passion, the gusto. 

If not this, then nothing. 

For no reason at all. 

I recently decided to disregard my dreams and snuff my ambitions. It hurts like hell to lose something so close to me, a bit of myself I fostered since youth, since that underlying insecurity. 

I don't care. 

As you die. As you writhe in agony, begging for life, for sustenance, I will watch with a smile on my face. You wretch! I will love to watch you languish! 

We dedicate  ourselves to film, economics, writing novels, playing basketball, anything that harbors safety for that good old fashioned ambition... We exert ourselves, but deep down, we don't care. It isn't us. We don't love it. Success won't do much. It will only allow us to love ourselves. 

Love yourself now. YOU DON'T NEED TO PROVE ANYTHING. YOU DON'T NEED TO SHOW ANYTHING. 

There's a lot of love in my life. Great friends, wonderful relationships, though I wish the woman situation (in each and every case, a scar, a scab, a burden to carry and bury) were better, but I try to be above it all. 

We need to realize, WE HAVE TO KNOW, that every day is a blessing. We are so fucking lucky to be humans. Food is good! Sex is great! No creature is blessed like we are! With this in mind, why do we go to school, why do we look inside (at our ugly imbalances and grisly failures)? We should try. We should go and go and go and go.... 

But only if we mean it.  If we don't mean it, everything is nothing. 

Let's dance fuckers. 

Let's shoot guns off overpasses. 

Let's eat thousands and thousands of tacos. 

We don't owe the world anything except advice... 

"Love every minute. If you don't, you fail."

I vow to love you, to take you in, nourish you, and make you my own. It's a long road... disregarding hope, dream, and ambition, but such is the path for me. 

Chase what you love. 

Do what you ought to. 

Follow the spirit. If nothing else. 

Even if you go after life, encountering success, and finding some semblance of happiness, there will be a void. 

You deserve to be happy. You don't have to fear. 

Just go. 

Just love. 

Every moment. 

Every fear. 

We only fail when we frown. 

I love you all, so much. 

Joel Walkowski

PS This post was intended to describe how I like rap songs that begin with piano riffs. They merge the classic conceptions, things we have been conditioned to recognize, with sheer modern ambition, utter gusto! 

I'll be happy forever. Who's with me?

Warm Up 3: Gladhanding Godwins

Author's Note: The Following Article is taken from the May 1993 issue of Cleveland Living Magazine.

Additional Note: The drunk blogs around these parts are ridiculous. I don't know what Joel has been up to. He's been going through something, eh?

The first time I ever saw a homeless person it damn near broke my heart. My Dad and I were walking through downtown Cleveland on our way from a Rockers WNBA Game when a man approached and asked us for some money for food.

His eyes were yellow. Muddled with heartbreak, a vague yearning.

I wanted to help him but I was only 7. My Dad gave him some change and we went on our way. I wished we could take him to our home and give him a place to stay until he got back on his feet. He'd thank us when he got a job, a girlfriend, and his life back.

We didn't take him back. Looking back, it was probably the right thing to do. A home with the homeless is no place for a 7 year old.

I've liked the homeless ever since then. Today a man stopped me in the park asking if any of my rommates had left and if so, did they leave any pancakes behind.

"It Makes You Bigger Making Your Thoughts More Daring" An Epitaph

Dear Loved Ones/Those Who Have Come To Be The Best/Stranger That Read This Blog, 

I've been myself for a long time. Against all odds I have loved you, made you laugh, and induced dizziness with the sheer scope of my ambition & ambition. How many times have we held each other up, lifting the other with our imagination, creativity, and love. A simple and succinct note: if you're reading this blog, I'd be nowhere if not for you. 

It was a lie. I gave it up years ago. I've moved on. Grown to new expectations. 

A few months ago, I was awake late at night gripped in the worst thoughts of my life". I looked at my life, emphasizing every aspect in order to escape. I couldn't.  I hated who I was. I hated what I was doing. Sitting in bed, below a masturbating Nick,  I wished I was someone/anyone else. Someone less goofy, less insecure, less cocky and cocksure. 

I can't distract myself with myself, my feelings, basketball, and ambitions any longer... 

I know why I'm here. 

I'm here to make something beautiful. Something transcendent, all encompassing, offensive, and perverted. I want to express myself. Make you laugh. Make you shudder in fear and disgust. I want to make you disrespect me but manage to let you know where I'm coming from. 

I want to make a beautiful story. 

Be it a book, movie, play, or Hip-Hop Album. 

Something in me resonates. 

A quirk or qualm 

Or amazing occurrence 

Goes beyond me and into you. 

You don't know me. 

But you know where I'm coming from. 

5 pages a day isn't enough. It's all I can handle but it isn't enough. Something lives and breathes deep within me. I have built into something else, approaching it from the wrong angles. 

This doesn't mean I won't get there. I hear that champion song!!!

I thought I gave myself a heart attack yesterday. For the second time in my life, I believed that I was dying. I guess I should have told some one. I didn't. 

I sat silent and suffered. I was scared out of my mind but didn't want to burden you. 

More than that... My love for you! For everyone and everything! (You are all so great, so magnificent that blogs can never capture the magnitude of your amazing). 

I might be wrong, you might be shit, but I doubt it. 

If I could look through the annals of history, at every person who has chanced their way into existence, and be allowed to choose the 30 people who made up the biggest part of my life... 

For the 30... 

Out of the innumerable billions... 

Of all existence...

25 of the same thirty would remain the same. The other 5 would be: Shawn kemp, John Kennedy Toole, The Snowman, The First Caveman, and Weezy F Baby. 

I'm lucky to be here. Happy to be alive. 

There is a great task before me. 

I thought I would let it kill me. 

It won't. 

It will only make me stronger, 

I will grow bigger

And love you more. 

I'll give you my best. 

I don't want to go to school. I don't want my time wasted. 

I've been really hurt  but I won't lash back. 

You were right. 

I sort of suck sometimes. 

Sorry if you were there for those times. 

Even if I seemed weak, grabby, and vulnerable...

They helped me grow. 

I'm bigger now....

STRONGER!

It hurts but I will get over it. 

I am Joel. 

For now and forever...

You w0n't believe me...

But I disregard unhappiness, insecurity. 

I want to be me. 

I want to be happy. 

Play sports, watch sports, make the old smile 

Give everyone I meet a time worth the while. 

When you leave me...

I hope you'll grin. 

stupid happiness? 

that's where we begin. 

I'm sick of the boredom. 

those strifes! 

these scares! 

can we escape anywhere? 

yes. 

go inside. 

it's where we ought to be. 

let's grow big. 

it's where we ought to be....

Footnote: I'm giving my life to this shit. Goodbye World. Sorry for beating your sorry ass. I'm defining you from here on out fella...

Warm Up Exercise: Boat Trip

I always liked Charles. Liked him a lot to be honest with you. 

He was my next door neighbor for six years. We had a nice little relationship. Sometimes I'd take out his garbage, sometimes he'd shovel my walkway. As close quartered citizens we helped each other out. The way I look at it, you have to. 

So I wanted to write a short story about a man whose neighbor invited him out for a day on his boat. On the boat they all get naked and sit there like stagnant old prunes. 

I can't write something like that maaaaaaaaaaan. 

There's only one type of thing we're able to write. When days get long and hard, when ambition gets flustered, all we can do is wait. 

W33zy Bitch!

Warm Up Exercise: An Ongoing Study of the New Orleans Hornets

I don't care if the above photo is a stock photo. It's hard to care today. On a bright Los Angeles day that triumphs lovely triumph, Nick's intrepidly goofy reunion (that's a compliment Mister), and sweet sweet weather that feels like a caress, the wonderful day has been undermined. 

There's no basketball on today. There isn't any on tomorrow either, unless you count Cleveland-Boston as an extension of sport. On a visual level alone it resembles a bland hunting trip much more than professional athletics. The entire lot of Celtics and Cavaliers wander around, waiting for something to happen, longing to draw their guns. In crunch time of yesterday's game I saw Glen "Big Baby" Davis hit the bottom of the rim with a lay up. He is 6'9. 

It is safe to assume that his reach is at least 9 feet. He couldn't throw a basketball a foot. 

 No Chris Paul (CAPTAIN PARAGON!), no Manu flops, no watching David West and commenting on his collection of designer heels. 

For every woman David West sleeps with, he buys a pair of designer stilettos. They are a gift for her but can never be given to her. They are steeped in her essence, overcome with her being. He smells, touches, and occasionally tastes the shoes. Every pump a monument to lost love, a reminder to Mr. West that he promised mother he would shop around. (Mrs. West was a big Smokey Robinson fan). 

It's hard for a hopeless romantic. On the nights of these trysts, David West has considered every woman the one. They fell aslumber, man and wife for all time. 

They're gone when he wakes. They may have deserted him but they deserve to be remembered. If only by the shoes. David West crawls out of bed and logs onto Yahoo shopping. He peruses the selection until finding the right shoe for her. He gets it shipped next day air. 

He sometimes cries when opening the shoes. The box and paper are just like their outfits. He feels a pang of hurt undressing them, forever making them like their inspirations. After analyzing the shoes, getting what they're all about, David West puts the shoes in his "Hall of Ladies". 

"The Hall of Ladies" is a shrine of 350 pairs of Gucci Pumps and Armani Pumps (I like using the word pump this morning). Late at night, with loneliness nipping at his toes, David West goes in his "Hall of Ladies" and remembers each and every woman. The tears last until morning. 

After the shoot around today, the Hornets are planning a team activity, a camaraderie inducing spectacle. As they walk out of practice Tyson Chandler (he of the long limbs and same genes as Tayshaun Prince) asks "Boy, you excited?" 

David West stops and ponders. "I don't think I'll ever be excited again."

Game 7 Prediction: David West will be benched for showing up late to the shootaround in drag. When asked why he will simply state "My urge to rebound is fueled by love alone."

Wilson's Big Fat Oil Slick

Nick: If you were an animal what kind of animal would you be?
Me: Probably a retarded labrador retriever with a terrible closed head injury. And like only three legs.

*****

Foreward:

Note 1: I looked inside last night. For the first time, in a long time, I did not like what I saw. This realization led to a long night and many self inflicted debates.

Note 2: Two Months Ago, gripped by heroism and defiance towards the status quo, I formulated an idea. It was one I held very close to me. I am utterly unable to express it to people.

Since I am so weird, fucked up, maligned, awesome, handsome, adventurous, caring, beautiful I felt that the only way to cope with pressing matters was to merge them into one. If only I could somehow incorporate being jilted. I'd be the triple threat!

Anyway... Here is my horrible night and the first experimental chapter of Franklin & the Woods (which will be my second novel after the Worldbeating events of this summer).

Quit being such quitters.

*****

Out in the Woods where the World is very big
Lies a quiet little town where all is very small


"Dad, I have to go to the bathroom." Franklin piped up from the cramped back seat of the little yellow car as it wound its way through the dusty yellow roads of the Gargantuan Mountains.
Dad couldn’t look back; the road was curvaceous to the point that it demanded all his attention. 

Besides, even if he looked back, he wouldn’t have been able to see Franklin. The car was heaped with all of their possessions.

"Can you hold it? We're almost there."

Franklin wasn't sure he could. His bladder was about to burst. This was the first warning sign. He’d made an accident in the car on several prior occasions and was quite embarrassed by it. He couldn’t abide an accident now. Not today, not on the first day of his future. A wet cushy spill that makes Dad angry and Pants soggy was surely a bad omen. Franklin knew a lot about omens because he knew a lot about a lot of things. For his money, he was probably one of the smartest eight year olds in the world. He could discuss both Hawaii and Rocket Ships in great detail.

He also knew embarrassment. Heaping piles of shame and guilt sprang up from nowhere, making him small, making him tired. He knew the feeling well because, well, he peed his pants a lot. Becoming nervous or agitated, Franklin's eight year old body knew only one way to mark the occasion: with an unanticipated spray of urine.

*****

In the Pink Lay-Z-Boy that once sat before the fireplace, Dad held Franklin in his comfortable lap, looking down with hard and serious eyes. "Franklin, you might not like this, but we're moving. I know you love the city, but we can’t stay here anymore. We have to do something new."

The words danced a shivery quiver down Franklin's spine. Why were they moving? What was this small town in the woods? Would there be friends? Most importantly, would he finally have a dog? He didn't know how to feel, so he felt wet instead. Dad picked him up, helped change his pants, and began to pack. All their things fit so well in the cardboard boxes. It made perfect sense to Franklin. Cardboard boxes could be anything if you looked hard enough. Looking at the boxes: he saw all he knew. The stamp collection, the roller skates, the model train set. His entire life was there, stored in neat, organized containers. Franklin wondered if it was really that simple. Franklin wondered how he would look in a box.

****

The teeny tiny little town of Plumsville lies in the thick of the Great Forest in the great ridges of the Gargantuan Mountains. It was as far from the City as could possibly be. Dad told him so. He said that he grew up here and never even knew what a taxi was? Either the town was weird or Dad was stupid. Everyone knew what a taxi was!

Though it is a small town, there is a person for every job and a job for every person. As the locals used to say “People have Purpose it Coatesville.”

It was true. Living in such a small, sacred town imbibed the citizens of Plumsville with a pride and panache all their own. Every one lived a good clean life and said hello to their neighbors, what more could they ask for?

Cut off from the world by a moat of thick green forestation, a collection of sprawling trees and sloping paths, it was unlike anything Franklin had ever seen. Used to the high rises and urban bustle of dear, sweet Pittsburgh, he was shocked to learn that anything was so lush and vibrant. He'd never thought outside the city. His imagination was limited to Pittsburgh. Whether an astronaut or professional baseball player, one fact was non negotiable, the entire universe of Franklin’s imagination took place in Pittsburgh. He wondered why. He could turn a box into a submarine but couldn't leave Pittsburgh.

*****

"Dad, plllllllllleeeeease?"

Dad was unresponsive but the car did the talking, pulling over to the side of the road, sending gravel up in droves, before coming to an aggravated stop. Dad put the car in park and got out, opening the door for Franklin (who was unable to in the face of child safety locks). Franklin climbed out, eager to pee, pleased not to pee his pants in the back seat of the car (yet again). It was a long, hard journey so far, but now that he was outside a strange calm had overcame him. The air was hugs, the sounds were kisses. Who knew a place could feel so good. Looking into the woods, the brisk colloquium of Pines, he couldn't help but smile. He knew everything would be ok. He knew he wanted to run.

Franklin set off at a sprint but Dad reached out a meaty paw and stopped him by the collar. He was always a brute, posturing and preening in gestures of male dominance. Setting a strong example for his waifish son to replicate. "Franklin. Just a second."

"But I have to pee."

"You can pee in a second, Franklin."

"BUT I HAVE TO PEE NOW."

"That's fine. I know you need to pee in private but don't wander too far. The woods beautiful, but very dangerous as well. There are a lot of creatures in the woods. Don't get too afraid."

"I'm not afraid of any creatures."

"Well, that may be so, but mother nature is not to be taken lightly. Just stay close, ok? I know 

I’ve had some tough times in these woods, I wouldn’t want you to do the same.”

Franklin gave a weak little nod, confused at Dad's serious tone. He was always so soft, so pleasant, that it startled him to see his Father become so stoic, so serious. He would have dwelt on this for many more moments but nature called as shrill as it possibly could.

He set off for into woods, a fleeting euphoria floating slyly overhead. It would all be ok. This new town would be his town soon. He wouldn't miss Mom forever.

Stepping into the first rung of trees Franklin was shocked to see darkness swallow all, enveloping the entire woods in the hug of it's shadow. Franklin was always afraid of the dark but not now. This dark didn't forebode or threaten. It was absence. Clean, pure, void. A place where nothing could go wrong.

Not wanting to turn back, fears of accidents flitting about his head.

Franklin found a friendly tree to urinate on. As he peed he realized this was the first friendly tree he’d ever met. Were the other trees unfriendly? Or. Did he not know how to approach trees that weren't this one? Maybe, he'd never know. Maybe Dad knew. He finished his business and put his pee pee away. It was time to go back to the car, back to the new house, the new home, the new school. The new was waiting, impatient as hell and screaming for him to hurry.
Steps were taken towards the car. The steps were solid and steady but felt a bit off. They were headed in the right direction, but obviously argued against this distinction. He knew the car, dad, their story. This was something new, maybe a bit scary, but warranting an exploration. He listened to his legs and walked on. It might not be pleasant, but he would learn something. He was Franklin: the smartest eight-year-old in the world.

Up ahead: a cavalcade of shadows, dancing and moving about, beckoning him, asking him, daring him. Could he go? He didn’t know! But if he did, he just might grow.

The wind flew through Franklin's feet, carrying him with both the moment and the spirit. Off he went! A true worldbeater! In this mode nothing could hold him. ABSOULUTE POTENTIAL WAS TASTED! As fast as could be! The little boy and the woods! It felt like swimming. His small cool frame blew through the air, refreshed by every breath. He’d need a towel.

He knew he couldn't trust it. He could love this feeling but not follow it. He knew it was a risk. But more than any trepidation and fears a calm shot through Franklin. He was safe here.
Franklin reached a dark clearing, near pitch black. He looked around and saw nothing. A brief jangle came from above, startling him. Maybe it was a bird. Owls would love a place like this. An abode all creepy and filled with mice. Franklin turned to walk back to Dad and their new home. The way back was gone. He was here to stay.

The rustle of the trees grew louder and louder, shifting in both pitch and modulation. It almost seemed as if words were being formed.

Franklin was afraid. He knew this was a good place, he was glad to be here, but part of him knew it wasn't right. Such big feelings can sneak inside and overtake you. He didn't want to be a vehicle, he yearned for complete control.

He couldn't take any more darkness. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the brightest and most beautiful light in the entire world. It crossed his mind for a fleeting moment, enough to grasp a glimmer of image. He had it, but not for long. Darkness swelled once again.
The limbs and length of tree reached forward. The hoots and howls of the creatures came from all directions. It built and built, getting scarier and scarier before stopping suddenly, as if to pave the way.

"Welcome to the woods Little Prince. We've been waiting for you."

Screams. Sprints. Runs. He couldn't get back to the car soon enough. Though fleeing in terror, eager to replicate the world he knew, one fact was set in stone: He couldn't get back to the woods soon enough.

For the first time in his, Franklin felt full. Scared as fuck, but full nonetheless. 

The Phoenix

According to a New Orleans Times-Picayune story, "Brian told his family that he knew he was going to heaven and that he wanted to meet Jesus wearing his Chris Paul jersey."

There's some good out there people, a basketball player has been turned into a vicar of small-good-things, providing a lift to a city, a league, and National Public Radio. The character of Chris Paul, (not the man as I don't know him, but the idea of him) is the sort of story I would usually exalt in. Happy to be here. Happy to be alive.

Right now?

It makes me feel fucking filthy. My hands are coated with dirt, sweat, and the grease of thousands of wasted hours. I wash them but the air is so thick with waste that washing is just a waste of time.

The past week, the latest in a long line of eras, has been neatly compressed in the routines of requirements, rest, and recreation. These are tenants societies are founded upon. They provide a neat structure and enable one to taste the spice of life. No matter how liberal or reformist someone might be, it is hard to coax the argument that these things are ultimately and resolutely terrible.

A lecherous fat is seeping out the edges, pervading our interactions, and dirtying our hands.

Time to care.
Time to do.
Time to try.

I know I'm sparking myself up with a basketball player but we need to be called out. A generation of fat, lazy slobs is looking inevitable. Even fun time, getting high and running around, is losing it's luster. These adolescent dreams are turning into adulthood nightmares.

A big change is coming. For all of us. We won't realize we've gone through it until it's too late

man. fuck. where did youth run off to?

Is That All There Is?!?

Another Night, Another Dream


Dear Mr. Barry Zito,

Last night, nipping at the tails of a relaxed and mellow day, I fell into the trap of nothingness... I was left with nothing to do.
There were plenty of tasks I could have completed or research I might have compiled, but there was no chance of this. I have a feeling you know what I'm talking about here.

Responsibilities beckoned but I was able to shrug them off mere as trivialities of modern life. I heard the siren song of smoking cigarillos and taking batting practice in the vacant lot. There were temptations but I couldn't do anything. I was stuck a distraught, tangled mess until heading to bed. I'm the same mess this morning. I ran out of a vitally important French review session because my Butterfinger tasted like vomit.

I'm not weird. I ain't crazy. These are the things you feel when you open yourself up, set a standard, or garner some small belief in yourself.

You've seen the ziggurat. A Cy Young in 2002, a dastardly 12-6 curve that confounded batters as much as your antics confounded sportswriters. (He wears #75, that's so ZANY!). These exploits made you a pitching paragon, an argument for the finesse pitcher, and a ripe target to receive the richest contract a pitcher has ever received. I'm not sure about the specifics but it's something like 126 million over 7 years. We won't pile on here. We can say you make more than I do in a week.

Since that fat contract, you've been really terrible, the phrase "god-awful" puts it mildly. You've been open about it, discussing your struggles with the press, explaining your frustration at finding the all familiar ziggurat suddenly out of reach. You have recently been demoted to a relief pitcher, sparking snide comments about your persona, abilities, and pressing questions as to whether or not you were ever any good to begin with.

We're strangers Barry, but we're not all that different. My personality and weirdness overshadows everything I do. I attend the University of Southern California. I was even confused for you at the Mall once. It was by someone saying they knew you. According to him: you, your sister, and he took a song-writing class together.

My advice to you is simple: Our struggles can not become us. We might look back at some days, nights, and endeavors and feel a great tumult seize up inside us, take hold, and shrink us to bits. Don't let circumstances take hold of your head and overpower your person. You're too good for that, we all are. You aren't great because you're a great pitcher. You're great because you were the only pitcher ever to offer Yoga lessons in the back pages of Vanity Fair. No one can take that away from you.

Mired in the malaise, I picked up a book. The prose was written from a 3rd person omniscient point of view, detailing a fallen star's further fall from grace. We don't respect the character. We sort of hate him, actually. However, entrance in his head, innate understanding of what spurs his choices, inspires his insipid conversations, and what fuels his fears gives a brave idea. As long as we are human, generating thoughts and vibrant ideas about even the most indolent matters, we are achieving. By thinking, any thought, we accomplish something, establishing new terrain.

Who cares about pitching?

Good luck Barry.

Sincerely yours,

Joel Walkowski

Lemonade Ice Cream!

Sick to death of all this learning

I just want to sit and be.

With you.

Dear Stranger, 

I must seem like the strangest place to hear this from. Though I am under-qualified as a source and over-qualified for over stepping my boundaries, I must foray forth. 

As strangers, your notions of me are either: a) nonexistent b) bleak or c) deeply disturbing. I am no better than you. You have a right to live your life without the scourge of being judged or ostracized for your actions. This is America still, isn't it? 

I was recently roused from my slumber by the sounds of a wiffleball game wafting through my window. This wake up was no real surprise. I live in the wiffle district and 3:30 in the morning seems like wiffle time to me. The familiar cacophony of plastic on plastic and heated calls of "Ball", "Strike", and "Quit being such a fucking baby" lent a warmth and familiarity that almost made me forgive the interruption. The only unwelcome noise, the blemish on this otherwise noble feat, was the high pitched laughter and accompanying screaming. 

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

"WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOooooooooooooooooooooooooogggggggggggggg" 

From the sound of it someone was having the time of their life. Fortuna blowing a mighty gust inside of their britches, lifting them from the earthly plain. The problem with this is that wiffleball (though great, albeit the Sport of Sirs) is not that fun. It will never produce the same natural screams as a roller coaster. The offending parties could have been immensely fucked up, but past experience indicates that this does little to add volume to a wiffleball game. 

I think your screaming was fake. I don't think you were having that much fun. You may desire to have that fun in your life, that elusive zeal of zeals, but if it isn't there we'll know. Your fun sounds tainted and contrived. A fabrication of insecurities and falsehoods. You did a good job of faking, but you faked nonetheless. 

You sound like someone trying to enjoy them-self. Every decibel is asterisked. 

I can forgive the idea of faking an orgasm. I can garner the reasons why someone would cheat on a test. I can not wrap my grapefruit sized head around the idea of pretending to enjoy myself. It's cheating on your self, cheating on your company. Why not save the effort? If you want to immerse yourself in gooey emotion, go fuck a hot pocket. Keep the shit in it's heat sleeve to catch the bit of pepperoni that inevitably seeps out. 

Your sounds have long died. Faded into the dark of night. You are probably asleep now. That's ok. I guess the reason I'm writing this is that you don't look back on this day as proudly as you should. Late night wiffle can be a revelation. A sensation for 3 1/2 of 5 senses. You should smile at today but it's hard to smile when building every anthill into a god damn ziggurat. 

I once saw a T-Shirt that said "Women can fake orgasms but Men can fake entire relationships". It made me want to throw up. I was 11. 

******

Thing I love: A friend of mine is devoting his summer to recording the rap song Boner Pants

BONER PANTS

In my head

In my mouth

In my eyes

In my pants

Boner Pants 

For the last time ART > SCIENCE 

Thing I hate: The severe lack of Siestas in the lives of Miners. If anyone deserves it, it's them. 

Thing that makes me feel kinda weird: TJ MAXX in New Mexico. For obvious reasons