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

It's Finally Here!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This might be the weirdest post in the history of this blog. WHOA!!!!!



I've been a bit absent from this blog/website/recipe compendium as of late. My apologies on this front. On one hand I feel that I don't have much to say aside from pure conjecture and reviews of Foxtrot comic strips. (JASON HAS A DART GUN! AND HE SHOT PAIGE WITH IT! LOLZIEZ!). This drought of annoying proportions can be attributed to several factors.

1) Life's too good.
Days these days, end only one way. Sprawled in bed, limbs spinning out everywhere. Rejoicing in clean sheets while eating pizza in bed. Waking up the next morning with the wonder of why I am covered in crumbs. These champion thoughts! Far reaching triumphs of American Idiocy! Here I am! I don't care!

Call me crazy but it feels like enough. Smiling while falling asleep never grows old. Each day holds a passion, triumph, and sense of adventure that could forever be unparalleled. If my future self told me these were the best days of my life I wouldn't be surprised. Then I would ask him to take me to the future, whereupon we would be both be harvested as food for the Mongoloid race. (All HAIL KING CHEN!)

2. Respect for words

Words are a pretty hallowed thing for me. Lame as fuck I know, especially for someone dedicating so much of their time coming up with creepy things to write in the margins of library books.

I know a lot of people I love read this blog. I don't want to subject ya'll to 3000 word diatribes about my wiffleball performances. The only thing you'll get out of it is the lesson: don't fuck with rosebushes.

I've recently opened Oscar Wilde's "Portrait of Dorian Gray". In the work he spins a great narrative (not The Great Narrative, that's my future) in the form of abject philosophical thoughts and inklings of lust. The thing fits together like a puzzle, perfectly composed, challenging one to understand what it stands for. Given the artistic form of the novel, one is given an unabridged freedom. The thing that makes words better than pictures, movies, and slideshows, is that you can get into another's head. These other medium's allow an assumption. The words give a presence!

3. The NBA PLAYOFFS!

I've learned so much so quickly. My friends have recently gone forth with "the ultimate inspiration". Though I am wary on some levels, I know this is one of the few things that can build me up, turn me into the "Person I ought to be". This is a beautiful thing, a gesture possessive of all that love and camaraderie have to offer. However, I cannot marry this idea while the San Antonio Spurs are thriving.

For all intensive purposes the San Antonio Spurs have resemble a creative collective. Tim Duncan is the superstar. The piece de resistance that no one can ignore. Whether or not he is at the apex is of no bother, he will always be at the top, his name mere inches from the tip of your tongue. he is the silent brooding force, the be all end all. However, he is without ego. He steps aside letting (relative) peons like Tony Parker and Manu Ginobili take the spotlight. though these two play THE BEAUTIFUL GAME, I will never be able to appreciate them. they possess the soul crushing embodiment of a winner to the extent that it would make me content to be a loser. I don't want to dalliance for your attention or shape my work by your guidelines. I want to do what I want, in a great creative burst, shooting forth uncensored. How is that possible when the Nash/Amare artistry is rendered helpless by these cold hearted mercenaries of success.

Watching the Spurs, hearkens me back to the High School Scholarship Scramble. No matter how much it matters to you, me, or anyone. We cannot win. Not when the National Honor Society kids sweep in at the last moment and claim the prize. Who can blame them? They were born winners. They take the throne without pity. Let losers wallow!

In any case: a revolution is slowly forming. Art in it's finest form, fueled by friendship, camaraderie, and indulgence in ideas only we love. I get sat down for heavy handed lectures, inspired by the idea, but fearful of the Spur's corollaries. The Spurs give big shots to the likes of Oberto, Finley, and Barry, role players on the highest possible stage (though Finley used to be fantastic). I see this as the perfect model, but can not merge the idea with my abject hatred of the Spurs.

Also, I need to have a heart to heart with Chauncey Billups.

4. Finals Week

As a college student who has effectively shirked off the entire semester, I have no idea how i am going to get through it all. Sorry I ignored you college, I know you are a bastion of all good things, in the back of my mind I have always appreciated the idea of quiet submission to my chosen field. That being said, I feel my person growing to the extent that college cannot contain me. Too many ideas, so many possibilities, that I cannot possibly submit to you right now. I am sorry. Deep down, I love what you've done, but so invigorated by people and ideas I have no time for you. I just need to get through the rages of this semester and exalt in the freedom of being a human being with ideas.

What I need to do to get through the semester:

Medieval Civilizations:
Seeing as I don't know any of the material it is best that I submit my final on Medieval Parchment.

French: Seeing as I know nothing it is best that I dress up as a Frenchman for my final and be very argumentative.

Sailing: Fucked. Str8 up.

Sound: I have no idea.

I don't even know my other classes. Let's be people!

5. Certain Special People

:)

Apologies for pure drivel.

Indie Movie Review: Welcome to the Dollhouse?

This wet summer comes down on us dripping wet and nibbling on our ankles. It's time for some of that good old fashioned Americana. The superstar stuff of champions. The sort of inkling that creeps into your blood, sending jitters down your spine. There you find yourself; sprinting barefoot on that oozy asphalt towards that chrome ball of dreams: the playground.

Lick your lips, gathering in all that salty anticipation. The parade of play! The paragon of ultimate childhood fun! Though seemingly aged to the heavens (a musky 21) I am so enamored by these metal beasts and their accompanying slides, bridge, and knee sores. Long live the imagination! Here I am: Captain Explorer! In the land of youth they were everything. Now? I see homeless guys sleeping in one sometimes; it reeks of urine.

Let's go back to church people...

NOT IT!

BUT NOT FOR THE SHOW OF SHOWS... CORVETTES!








Serena Williams? Pfffttt. Everybody know Obama gon' be the first black president.

My name is Shelton Quarrels. I played corner back for the Tampa Buccaneers. I'm coming to eat your cookies!

ZOMG! all the hottest goss for the here and the now

yo yo yo kiddies,

so i spent most of the last month researching my latest play. its about a karate master you may be familiar with who supposedly died in the last year or two. thing is the guy (or girl...) didn't die, in fact he just faked that shit so that he could lure the world into a false sense of security and then launch an underground cookie revolution, one that would completely change the way that you, me and everyone we love and care about (and occasionally hate on) view life. the secret ingredients, some hardcore shit that i don't care enough about to remember currently. it was heady stuff, and i gotta say it was a relief to finally pull myself out of that whole society. i don't know if i got the meddle for cut throat black ops shit.

but yeah needless to say the whole quagmire required some intense embedded-ness on my part, so i hadn't seen my meat pack district apartment that entire time. so i get home earlier today and i find that my mail box (both literal and virtual) is packed full of assorted correspondence from eastern european companies of varying prestige asking me--yes little ol' me--to become their new corporate face. see the thing is in the month since i last surfaced, i've become a sort of celebrity as my play was viewed as being a perfect (to all the motherfucking t's) deconstruction of contemporary eastern european society. so after shining light on how pitiful that collective group of people's lives really are, each and every one of these corporations has been rushing to get me to endorse them, thus giving them the badge of "hey nearly everything you believe in is bullshit, but not this, so buy the fuck out of it, and you're guaranteed to be cool, just like me." being new to this and also not wanting to get myself into yet another quagmire (especially not another that requires spending a month with exhumed corpses), i started doing some research on all of my company-callers and on celebrity and whether or not i'm willing to take that plunge in the first place.

well after 48 minutes of work i've come to an answer...fuck yes i'm ready to embrace celebrity and all the cool shit that comes with it. celebrities lead the coolest lives dating who ever they want (i'm already in touch with bea arthur), driving whatever they want (i've already ordered a bentley wheel barrow with which i will drive around l.a. in), smoking whatever they want (...umm maybe it's better i not say my plans for this), and just all around doing whatever they want regardless of whether or not common folks could do it (13 nipslips already!). whose to tell you know when you're fucking aces afterall. but as for my company i'll be lending my striking visage too...well it turns out it's not eastern european (although i'll be fronting their foray's into poland and the ukraine). it's a little los angeles based company that you may have heard of...ready for it...you sure...don't want at least one more guess...ok fine...paris hilton shoes!!! i am proud to say that those heels are the cat's meow and i can whole heartedly throw my all behind their product from both an aesthetic and comfort levels. plus it'll occasionally give me the chance to hob nob with paris's new beau, benji, something which im all for.

besides raking in the dough that comes with having agreed in principle (and tomorrow signing the contract) to shill ms. hilton's excellent footwear, i'm also going to start documenting all the goings on of my new friends. so be ready for plenty of not so exclusive pics and anecdotes of miley cirus, scarjo, and tom sellek. it's the life of a celebrity babies, and i'm living the fuck out of it.

now excuse me while i go prepare for my first champagne bath.

Not Today. Never on This Date.

uhhhhhhh.......

In the mirror of memory (THE MEMORY MIRROR! OMG!) I can look at these past few days and see nothing but haze. It's been memorable;  slow and pulsating exuberance youth pumping out energy at every interval. I can look back and see it puddling on the floor. Watch your shoes!

What I'm trying to say is that the past few days have been pretty good. GOODNESS IN EVERY ORIFICE! A contributing factor to the quality of the past few days has been the rampant amount of NBA playoffs consumed by yours truly. BASKETBALL IN EVERY ORIFICE! 

Having such an intimate relationship with the sport, I fall in love. I can't treat this baby like a mistress. I can't have my fun and disregard her. I have to know her. Respect her. Treat her like a lady. 

Sorry

I just can't do this right now! :) 

See you soon!!!!!!!!

Religion in a Bottle

In time of spiritual tumult, when tough questions are asked to be answered or ignored, a fear came down from above. What if there was nothing? This fear did not pertain to life after death, meaning in the everyday, or any of the big tantamount fears casually tossed about like rag dolls. The treacherous feeling creeping in my stomach as my family drove through the idles of Kentucky, was connected to the loss of magic. What is religion but explanation for the strange and weird? Without a belief in the almighty can one harbor hopes in the berths of ghosts, coincidence, and other manifestations appearing for no reason at all.

In other words: What would become of the magic?

My fourteen year old had a slippery grip on the nature of everything, he even liked Slipknot. A belief called to me but I was unwilling to make the leap. It shut too many doors, made the world too small. We can mask our beliefs, but deep down at the core of it, we feel their resonance.

God has no place in my life. I'd rather concentrate my efforts on pigeon racing, skirt chasing, and lustrous endeavors of this cynical realm. I reject him/her like Marcus Camby, all long limbed and injury prone.

The secular world has done a world of good for my thought, my joy, and my heart, but at the core of it everything is spiritual. Magic is everywhere! I can't do anything without seeing the forces at work.

Example 1: The Pierre Turgeon Corollary

Pierre Turgeon was a high scoring centre in the NHL through the 80's and 90's, playing for the Sabres, Islanders, and Blues among other teams. He wasn't the best, which is why I liked him.

The best is never appealing. True beauty falls in falling just short and abysmal failure. This is why my favorite athletes of all time are Charles Barkley, Karl Malone, and Roy Williams of the moribund Detroit Lions franchises. (Note: Roy might be in the pantheon because he lived near me and talked to my friends and I when we knocked on his door.)

Trading cards at school was a favorite activity among the latchkey kids in my school. One fine day, I managed to procure a Turgeon All Star Card. I put it in my folder and put the folder in my backpack for safe keeping. I continued playing and drooling before going home for the day. It was my last moments of blissful innocence for when I got home the Turgeon was gone!

I searched high and low in every possible crevice. How dumb could I be? This was a Pierre Turgeon! One of the top ten goal scorers in the NHL! The very same Pierre Turgeon who was traded for Pat LaFontaine! THE PAT LaFONTAINE!

I couldn't find the card and moved on with life, forever embittered. Two weeks later, after multiple rounds of laundry, I felt something in my pocket while I ate a breakfast of WaffleCrisp (love those nooks and crannies). I looked in my pocket and there it was! PIERRE TURGEON!

Example 2: The Franzia Phenomenon

Drinking is good sometimes. When idle or stricken with malaise I indulge in the sauce. While I have been known to dabble in the church of Chimay, my economic stature limits me to the alleys of Miller High Life ("Cheaper than water" according to a certain LaPenna) and wine that comes in boxes.

This isn't the classiest distinction. Esquire would surely revoke my subscription if they knew. I make up for it by drinking out of the loveliest goblets, carved silver numbers.

These goblets fit nicely under the plastic tap and are able to take the fill. I watch the liquid pour in and once satisfied, attempt to close it. My fingers are too fat! They don't fit around the tap! I struggle and adjust to no avail. THIS WILL BE MESSY! It isn't.

At the very precipice of a mess gigantic, the tap becomes friendly and allows me to close it. I look down at my glass and see that it's filled to the exact perfect spot.


There are more examples but I'm lacking in the gusto department tonight. Procrastination does that to a man.



God wouldn't care about this shit.