Okay. What's up? I was thinking just today that I'm not quite sure what direction this whole exploratory journey into "having a blog" is taking. Mixing it up is always easy, because different moods create the ways of putting thoughts on the page. After all, writing too much in just one style can create a stale feeling at the drafters desk, it can silence a potential voice as equally as alter your desire altogether. This hasn't been a problem for me in personal journals because the words gets stowed away and as time goes on they become mere space fillers in my life, something I keep but rarely revisit. However, with a blog, every word is constructed with the ever mindfulness of a prying readership, an anonymous group of passer-bys and friends who want to learn something about me indirectly and will only return if what they extracted meant something to them. At least, that's the way I perceive it in my mind. So I try to write some heavy shit, and then maybe some weird shit, finally I try my hand at some funny shit. It's like this vague drunken typing session, passing the laptop around after 9 or 10 beers and a bong hit or two (only I'm the only one banging away at the keys). You're not sure what's sticking, what's making the grade. You're wondering if it's harder to write something, even informally, if you know other people will view it and stand on their heads with worry that you are turning into a raving madman. Thankfully, however, that is not the case.
And that's what I want to discuss for a moment. I want to thank you guys who have left encouraging comments as well people who have said kind words to me in person. I just wanted you to know I appreciate it and it helps. By taking the time to read any of these posts, let alone being compelled to reinforce that interest with kind words, is probably the warmest thing imaginable as far as I'm concerned. Because putting yourself out there is difficult, sometimes humbling and always worrisome. The fear of snap judgements, slighted friends and the always imminent prospects that whatever you spill onto the computer screen is veritable gibberish. An exercise in wryly sculpted garbage. A narcissistic smattering or boring words. Thanks to you (those who shall remain nameless), these are no longer concerns and I feel emboldened to continue on what has become a surprisingly therapeutic experience. As far as the direction these pages continue to take, I'm going to forge on with roughly the same approach. Swinging wildly at the night air at times, yet occasionally poignant and purposeful. Just like a Mike Tyson soundbite.
I thank you.
Take care.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
The Neighborhood
The streets of the old neighborhood - where the shit went down - is my sanctuary. The trees I climbed and the fences I hopped are my salvation. The crosswalk where I first lost my trust in police, the corner where my bike finally checked up and rode straight, the house where my Godfather lived larger than life for so many years before it all caught up with him. Walking between the shadows of the alley where I first saw blood gush from an open wound, while whistling a private tune, shuffling past unmistakably pungent reminders of a youth since past. I'm most happy when these relics are in plain view and the people are out in the sun. I often travel back to my childhood on those days, when what seems to make the most sense is a good, lively stroll in the midday commotion. I amble past strangely familiar brownstones and smell potted flowers on front steps. I look up at the numbers and it reminds me of those whisper quiet nights when I tucked myself in behind dumpsters and locked cars for the chance to kick-the-can at dusk. These are the memories that tingle inside when they arise and become a welcome relief from an adulthood sometimes punctuated with forgettable ones. The street names puzzle me with an odd delight, much like a new harmonica would a young boy, the curious sounds tantalizing the ears. Dearborn, Burton, State, Schiller, Banks, Astor ring in my head as I walk on the balls of my feet, springing up and out. I see twin brothers selling lemonade and I clutch for my pockets. I offer pleasantries to a roaming assembly of elderly women who hush and make reserved eyes as we pass. I nod towards an invisible memory of my grandfather as I pass a park bench he used to sit on and watch me play during our trips to Lincoln Park. I walk for what seems like days on that pavement, hitting heights no drug could ever provide. And when I get weary, and my body begins to ache with satisfaction, I get on the Clark bus and head home. Swaying with the people, I smile. Moving up my front stairs, I sigh. Sweaty with the day, I head directly to my room, shedding clothes in a crooked path to my bed. The A/C kicks in and I wrap the sheets tight, making a human burrito in that black room and as I drift off, I feel not burdened, I feel not pained... all I feel is the gentle sleep of a child washing over me...
Women
Alright. So it's been three weeks since I last contributed to this space and the time spent has been a slow and even roll from normalcy into the desperate oblivion that is my typical mess of a life. Upon arriving in Chicago a little over a month ago, I made it a point to create routines. Things I did everyday, or every week, to keep my schedule alive with destinations, goals and most importantly things that bring me joy. I'd drink 8 glasses of water a day to help digestion. I'd play more golf until I broke 85 every time out. I'd write everyday for myself and share some of the better things when I saw fit. I'd quit smoking and break into the highly elusive lakefront bike riding scene. And eventually, I thought, all these little things would somehow produce a producer. A man who would climb a mountain one day and paint it the next. A Renaissance Man in the Information Age. A stark contrast from the collegiate persona I created for myself with hours of EA Sports notched under the belt and pipe cleaning skills so adept you'd wonder why I'd leave it off my resume. So after a noble effort, I'm back to drinking on weekdays and sneaking onto my back porch for red-eyed midnight stargazing by myself. The laments of a lazy soul.
So anyway, that's why I haven't been writing more. But here I am now and I promise to get more out in the weeks to come. Since I've been the lyrical equivalent of a penniless MC living in his moms basement (that is to say, rather depressing) lately, I'll attempt to catch you up. I've been keeping to myself these past few weeks because it pays to keep a short leash on your emotions at times. Much more manageable. I've been walking around a lot more. I walked for 6 hours the other day with no destination. Headphones, backpack, notepad and a heaving sensation of self. I ended by eating a ham sandwich outside Wrigley Field, then I caught the EL to Witts, the one Paulie bartends at... that's another thing... writing at the bar is fun. I feel like a barfly and although I am not, the basic components of being a fake barfly are very rewarding. Free from judgement. A Chainsmoking guru. A swollen belly and a quip for the outspoken patrons. Fuck you, I'm taking all comers, drinking whiskey and writing hard-guy poetry while I'm at it. Yeah, that's it.
As far as women go, I've become increasingly more aware of my own attractions and what they mean. I remember a simple time when it was about the chase, the pursuit, the fleshy wriggle of limbs as you fell into tousled sheets during your first go-around. But now, I've learned there is more at stake, even if things on the surface things look the same. I talk with old loves over the phone who are in new, more stable relationships now. They are in New York. They are in Virginia Beach. They are happy. And I am happy too. For them. And in our monthly conversations they ask the same predicable question with equal amounts curiosity and playfulness, "So, what's her name?". I strain for a moment and reply, "Um, let's see... I THINK her name is ((fill in the blank)), but you know how that tequila scrambles your head." We laugh, we talk some more and then we hang up. The thing is, I think my major difficulty in a department I used to be so good in isn't the newfound beer gut or the questionable maturity or even the approach... it's that I've given myself too many outs. I've rationalized too many reasons why it isn't important to me. I love time with the guys. Who wants to meet her folks? Hungover Sunday obligations, fuck that. She'll just try to change me. Etc. Etc. Etc. With all these thoughts hanging down on me, I forget the great moments that lead up to that. The longing for a phone call. The tired expressions made interesting and new because she said them. The feeling you get watching her, drunk, dancing in the kitchen while you steal a moment of your own from down the hall. The whole deal elevates you and mesmerizes you and, if you get a good one, consumes you in the best imaginable way. I haven't had that feeling reciprocated since college and I think after a few years you forget that it's out there. You see, one never forget about the woman and her ticks. The decorated rooms and the soft and subtle eye contact. The finely teased hair and the sloppy outdoor kiss at 3 in the morning. Those things become almost mechanical if you let them. No, Im talking about the way you break your plans with the entire world if it means there is a chance you will bump into her. The way you overthink the wording in emails and underthink everything else. The way you keep telling yourself that something will happen even though you honestly don't have the slightest. That shit never gets old and that, my friends, is the problem at the heart of this matter I'm afraid. Hopefully I'll snap out of it and let my guard down enough to find her. Who knows, maybe I'll see her out at bars this very weekend. She'll ask what I'm doing and I'll say I'm writing and she'll say At a bar? Why? and I'll say something like I'm a goddamned Barfly, what's it to you? and then she'll ask if I have a light and I'll nod gruffly towards my pocket and she'll dive in there with her delicate fingers to fish it out, then she'll lean in and ask if I like tequila and it'll be perfect...
I gotta stop reading Bukowski.
So anyway, that's why I haven't been writing more. But here I am now and I promise to get more out in the weeks to come. Since I've been the lyrical equivalent of a penniless MC living in his moms basement (that is to say, rather depressing) lately, I'll attempt to catch you up. I've been keeping to myself these past few weeks because it pays to keep a short leash on your emotions at times. Much more manageable. I've been walking around a lot more. I walked for 6 hours the other day with no destination. Headphones, backpack, notepad and a heaving sensation of self. I ended by eating a ham sandwich outside Wrigley Field, then I caught the EL to Witts, the one Paulie bartends at... that's another thing... writing at the bar is fun. I feel like a barfly and although I am not, the basic components of being a fake barfly are very rewarding. Free from judgement. A Chainsmoking guru. A swollen belly and a quip for the outspoken patrons. Fuck you, I'm taking all comers, drinking whiskey and writing hard-guy poetry while I'm at it. Yeah, that's it.
As far as women go, I've become increasingly more aware of my own attractions and what they mean. I remember a simple time when it was about the chase, the pursuit, the fleshy wriggle of limbs as you fell into tousled sheets during your first go-around. But now, I've learned there is more at stake, even if things on the surface things look the same. I talk with old loves over the phone who are in new, more stable relationships now. They are in New York. They are in Virginia Beach. They are happy. And I am happy too. For them. And in our monthly conversations they ask the same predicable question with equal amounts curiosity and playfulness, "So, what's her name?". I strain for a moment and reply, "Um, let's see... I THINK her name is ((fill in the blank)), but you know how that tequila scrambles your head." We laugh, we talk some more and then we hang up. The thing is, I think my major difficulty in a department I used to be so good in isn't the newfound beer gut or the questionable maturity or even the approach... it's that I've given myself too many outs. I've rationalized too many reasons why it isn't important to me. I love time with the guys. Who wants to meet her folks? Hungover Sunday obligations, fuck that. She'll just try to change me. Etc. Etc. Etc. With all these thoughts hanging down on me, I forget the great moments that lead up to that. The longing for a phone call. The tired expressions made interesting and new because she said them. The feeling you get watching her, drunk, dancing in the kitchen while you steal a moment of your own from down the hall. The whole deal elevates you and mesmerizes you and, if you get a good one, consumes you in the best imaginable way. I haven't had that feeling reciprocated since college and I think after a few years you forget that it's out there. You see, one never forget about the woman and her ticks. The decorated rooms and the soft and subtle eye contact. The finely teased hair and the sloppy outdoor kiss at 3 in the morning. Those things become almost mechanical if you let them. No, Im talking about the way you break your plans with the entire world if it means there is a chance you will bump into her. The way you overthink the wording in emails and underthink everything else. The way you keep telling yourself that something will happen even though you honestly don't have the slightest. That shit never gets old and that, my friends, is the problem at the heart of this matter I'm afraid. Hopefully I'll snap out of it and let my guard down enough to find her. Who knows, maybe I'll see her out at bars this very weekend. She'll ask what I'm doing and I'll say I'm writing and she'll say At a bar? Why? and I'll say something like I'm a goddamned Barfly, what's it to you? and then she'll ask if I have a light and I'll nod gruffly towards my pocket and she'll dive in there with her delicate fingers to fish it out, then she'll lean in and ask if I like tequila and it'll be perfect...
I gotta stop reading Bukowski.
TK's Story
To me, older brothers grant the rarest, most perfect form of love to their younger brothers. This love includes an unspoken responsibility to share their purest knowledge of life, both good and bad. I have one older brother by six years. His name is Tom and we share the same father, but not the same mother. When I was fifteen he got me into a bar. We sat in the outside patio with all his fraternity brothers. They didn't call him Tom though, they called him TK, for his initials. They called me AK. We drank whisky and howled at the moon. For the first time, I felt like a man.
Tom was strong, tall, and good looking. He had emerald green eyes and fierce curly brown hair. Whenever he talked on the phone, he held the receiver to his face with his shoulder and said things like, "No doubt" and "Later on". I had never seen him cry, not once. He put a blanket over the window in his room so he could get that extra hour or two of sleep every morning. Every fiber of my being wanted to be like him. People would always tell us how we looked so much alike. I could never hear that enough.
One time, Tom offered to take me to a party with his fraternity brothers. Upon arriving, I soaked in this whole new world. A wonderfully rebellious haze hung in the air. The laughter of youth rang loud in that crowded room and I loved every moment of it. As the night wore on, Tom passed me a joint and said as only an older brother can,
"AK, you ever smoke before?"
"Um, sure. A couple times."
It would be a fate worse than death if I was exposed for the fraud I was, so I clenched my teeth and took it from him. All eyes in the room seemed glued to me at that instant. I inhaled just like Tom had before me. I remember coughing and everyone laughed, slapped hands and went back to their conversations. Tom had a big prideful grin on his face and I felt good.
****
"Hey Al, wake up. I've got some news."
My father's voice quivered in a way it never had before.
"It looks like Tom took a bad fall last night at college. He might not walk again. Your mother and I are going to leave for the airport in ten minutes, we'll call you when we get there."
Both of us looked at each other and threw up our macho faces.
"Ok, Dad."
"Ok, Al."
A couple days later I found out that Tom got drunk and fell down the stairs of his fraternity house. He would be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. I remember sleeping with a picture of him under my pillow for months after the accident. I remember the white halls of the rehab clinic and how they smelled of disinfectant. I remember looking into his eyes as nurses massaged his lifeless body. I remember the way he pretended he cared about who won the Final Four as he watched it from his bed. I remembered wishing that I was in that wheelchair instead of him. I remember that he never cried. Not once.
That was ten years ago.
Today, Tom lives in San Francisco by himself working long hours at a decent job. When wheeling himself up some of the larger hills, he takes breaks to smoke a Camel Light. I went to his college and I joined his fraternity. When climbing those black, cold stairs that he fell down all that time ago I see his emerald eyes for a moment and he whispers to me,
"Do it better than me, AK"
Tom was strong, tall, and good looking. He had emerald green eyes and fierce curly brown hair. Whenever he talked on the phone, he held the receiver to his face with his shoulder and said things like, "No doubt" and "Later on". I had never seen him cry, not once. He put a blanket over the window in his room so he could get that extra hour or two of sleep every morning. Every fiber of my being wanted to be like him. People would always tell us how we looked so much alike. I could never hear that enough.
One time, Tom offered to take me to a party with his fraternity brothers. Upon arriving, I soaked in this whole new world. A wonderfully rebellious haze hung in the air. The laughter of youth rang loud in that crowded room and I loved every moment of it. As the night wore on, Tom passed me a joint and said as only an older brother can,
"AK, you ever smoke before?"
"Um, sure. A couple times."
It would be a fate worse than death if I was exposed for the fraud I was, so I clenched my teeth and took it from him. All eyes in the room seemed glued to me at that instant. I inhaled just like Tom had before me. I remember coughing and everyone laughed, slapped hands and went back to their conversations. Tom had a big prideful grin on his face and I felt good.
****
"Hey Al, wake up. I've got some news."
My father's voice quivered in a way it never had before.
"It looks like Tom took a bad fall last night at college. He might not walk again. Your mother and I are going to leave for the airport in ten minutes, we'll call you when we get there."
Both of us looked at each other and threw up our macho faces.
"Ok, Dad."
"Ok, Al."
A couple days later I found out that Tom got drunk and fell down the stairs of his fraternity house. He would be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. I remember sleeping with a picture of him under my pillow for months after the accident. I remember the white halls of the rehab clinic and how they smelled of disinfectant. I remember looking into his eyes as nurses massaged his lifeless body. I remember the way he pretended he cared about who won the Final Four as he watched it from his bed. I remembered wishing that I was in that wheelchair instead of him. I remember that he never cried. Not once.
That was ten years ago.
Today, Tom lives in San Francisco by himself working long hours at a decent job. When wheeling himself up some of the larger hills, he takes breaks to smoke a Camel Light. I went to his college and I joined his fraternity. When climbing those black, cold stairs that he fell down all that time ago I see his emerald eyes for a moment and he whispers to me,
"Do it better than me, AK"
Words from the Barstool
I lasted for about as long as can be expected. I held on for dear life when it all seemed colossally futile. I let go shortly thereafter and if I'm ever given a second chance by the ill shakes of the world, it'll probably be the same tune. For now? Well, I'm like a batter with a full count knocking pitch after pitch to the waiting hands. I feel like a dazed boxer unsteady on his pins with a standing eight count, staring down my aggressor with a confused twinge in the space behind my ears. The women pile up, the expectations grow, the meaningful words get lost in the shuffle. I'm dancing around a suspended core of virtues that I subscribed to years ago and the weaving of manageable emotions into speech becomes ever more cumbersome, more transparent. I hold a pack of playing cards to the fan, let them go and watch them scatter. Somewhere else, a candle dies of natural causes. Twenty four hours peal away from an idle day, I hold my cap across my heart and the plain fear I handle like spare change eats me up. Turn the page.
On The Road
If it seems like I've been away from these pages for a good long time, you'd be correct. You see, I've been on the road for a while now, plying my familiar course between SF and Chicago, trying to better understand this hollowed out ideal of youth. Or, relative youth, at the very least. Anyway, I fashion myself a rugged driver. A machine known for passing up rest stops and piss breaks at an alarming rate. I've been known to slap myself awake until my cheeks are a rosy hue and my eyes are nothing more than red shocks of madness. I prefer driving alone because I can achieve a calculated degree of voluntarily induced hysteria. Here is my look back:
Day One: San Rafael to Salt Lake City (728 miles)
I woke up early and played trucks with my nephew for the last time in the foreseeable future. His tiny grasp on this world probably afforded him the joy only a child can know, as for me, I was knotted up with a wistful knowing that we wouldn't be playing basketball or throwing rocks into the stream or playing "tackle the uncle" for a good long while. My sister brewed coffee. I said yes.
I set out around 10am to miss traffic. The northern California heat grew steadily until I hit the Sierras and then the gathering elevation evened it out. These early hours of the trip were somewhat heavy on my heart. I saw exits for Napa and Sonoma, both places I've spent napping alongside one of the few true loves of my life after an afternoon of wine. As I approached Reno I thought of my brother and our midnight run across the border for Hold'em and free Heinekens and deep jostling belly laughs. It felt as though I was leaving this fertile valley of California fondness and into the desolate dessert of Nevada unknown. I hit Reno around 2pm. I rubbed my dashboard and pressed on.
Nevada was a five hour winding road with no AM radio presence or apparent upside. I can see a room full of balding white policy makers years ago shouting at each other, "If we dont legalize gambling, who the hell is going to come out here?" They were right. I decide to listen to the first two hours of my On The Road audiobook. I was a little wary because it was being performed by Matt Dillon, but I must say that I was pleasantly surprised. I heard he was portraying a young Charles Bukowski in the upcoming Factotum (one of my favorite books) and after my initial skepticism, I am now firmly onboard. Anyway, I watched as the towns passed, Winnemuca, Elko, Wells as Sal Paradise decided to begin his journey from the other coast. We'd meet in Nebraska as I'd eventually find out.
Sunset across the expansive salt flats of western Utah, running on the glowing earth as the sky lit up the world ten different colors, the glistening lights of Salt Lake City dancing with possibility in the distance. That two hour stretch was a great calm after a restless first day behind the wheel. I turned on the basketball game as I hit the city limits, Stevie Nash scored ten straight points with 4 minutes left, the Mavs kept turning the ball over and gave away Game One. Comical. I can see the floppy haired Canadien getting carried off the court in my mind. Time for bed.
Day Two: Salt Lake City to Lincoln, NE (880 miles)
I slept in until 9am to miss traffic once again, but also because I was given the King-sized suite with kitchen, Jacuzzi and free cookies (they were on a tray, it was glorious) for a measly 50 dollars. This favorable outcome came about because I was directed to a non-smoking single room late the previous night, however the room wasn't made up and it smelled like it was hot-boxed by three dozen potheads feverishly smoking brick weed until they couldn't hold their heads up anymore. For having to witness this, they gave Daddy the Rainman suite. Life works sometimes.
I pop up through what's left of Utah and soon I'm running along the dusty straits of Wyoming on I-80. I pass small towns and wonder what the world must seem like to a sophomore in high school in Lyman,WY. Does he have notions of greatness? Will he ever have to understand the terrors of a New York City subway map? Will prejudices he assumes as commonplace someday be the barrier that prevents him from meeting a best friend? Now, I'm not judging or condemning a whole state because of a stereotype or a hate crime that happened in Laramie, I'm only imagining what small town rural life must amount to at times. Here's the thing, I just feel like the "heartland" of this country is so isolated and so polarized that it has no connection with the soul of this nation. For the most part, it seems like a lost connector of minds that harvest and pick and spit without instigating progressive thought or belief.
Anyway, I hit Cheyenne in the mid afternoon and post up on an Arby's for some curly fries and a Jamocha (the most underrated beverage of our generation). I'm sitting there, waiting for my order in this empty place, watching the young boys and girls cajole and mimic each other in some terrible mating ritual never conceived of before. Terrible humor, worse hair. And I can't stop watching it. It got me to thinking, what happens when it gets to Real World 47 and they have nowhere else to go but Cheyenne? Aren't cast members going to get into bar fights daily? Will there be cow tipping? How much cow tipping will there be? Will their job be to run the new Baskin Robbins in town square? Ok, I'm officially giddy.
Nebraska was a non-event. One long road that gobbled up my will to live. I finally grabbed a Motel 8 room in Lincoln around 10pm, drank a six pack of Bud and expired in a ball under the air conditioner.
Day Three: Lincoln, NE to Chicago (523 miles)
The shortest day. The day I arrive. The easiest day? Not by a longshot. As Olivia put it, you feel like that scene from Monty Python and The Holy Grail where you see the character running and running and running and then you see the wide shot of him and hes still two hundred yards away. This is how this whole day felt.
I was on the road by 7am so I could hit local traffic like an asshole. I was into Iowa by 9am. Okay, so the vistas afforded by I-80 havent been beautiful since Utah. I want to turn off and see the Field of Dreams. I want to swerve into a corn patch and kill a scarecrow. I want to get the fuck out of this place. At this point I'm on my fifth and final 2 hour section of my audiobook. Sal has been up and down, left and right. He's seen the swamps of Louisiana and the vineyards outside Bakersfield, CA. He's been through foolish Denver nights and suffered with crooked cops in the foothills of Virginia. I've been on the same goddamn road for three days and I'm starting to see cross-eyed.
I hit Des Moines and the countdown begins. I start leaving cryptic messages on peoples machines. I tell people I'm going to fly around the world in a balloon one day and drop pamphlets all over the world about something or other. I'm going to buy stock in Sexiness and then get a gym membership. It doesnt matter, I've lost it at this point. I text people "Fort Hancock, TX" when I hit Davenport because Andy Dufresne said to Red, "Thats where Im gunna cross... Right on the border..." I swipe my gas card ten times and begin bargaining with the machine before the family of four in their minivan starts to stare. I crack a big, over-wrought smile and finally get it right. I take the squeegee from the bucket and whistle the tune from Deliverance as I get the bugs off the windshield. Nothing short of a nuclear assault is going to keep me from the city. The lights. The smells. The people.
I hit Chicago city limits at 3pm on a Friday. Traffic. I doesnt matter. I play Frank as the buildings come into view. I open the windows, turn off the cold air and sweat an honest Chicago sweat. Sticky backs on seats, matted hair and a fuckin maniacal smile. I pull the car into the dock by four. I come into my parents apartment, turn on the TV, slump into my favorite red canvas chair and watch the Cubs blow a two-run lead in the ninth inning to lose to the Braves....
AHHHHHHHHHHHH.....
Sweet Home, Chicago...
You know what I find truly fascinating?
You know what I find truly fascinating? It's the capability of our minds to let the tiniest things in which create an immeasurable difference in our lives. Let's just say it's the gloomiest week of the year and you've spent every night in, watching old Simpsons reruns, pulling on that whiskey bottle you keep in the freezer, trying anything to forget about how unfulfilled you are with your job, your body, your mental affairs. The breezy air outside no longer invigorates, but rather seems to drag on your sleeves and fill your lungs with erstwhile sighs. You handle each conversation with a delicate balance of half-hearted chuckles and pre-packaged answers, deliberately deflecting all external indications that your universe may not be as colorful as you let on. You see couples shuffling out of cafes full with tiramisu and playful banter, holding each others gaze just a little too long so you know they're in love... you walk by them, turn the music up in your headphones and think about what that used to feel like... what that warmth did to you after a long day. You drive home well past midnight and secretly hope you hit nothing but red lights. Your favorite moment everyday is the one right before you fall asleep...
Then, on some idle Thursday, you receive a call from someone who you thought forgot about you years ago. Or perhaps it's someone you've known all along. And they innocently say that they had a fantastic dream about you, or that they found an old letter you wrote them and it made all the difference. They tell you that they have a tremendous amount of longing in their life, but they are getting through it as best they know how. They ask how you have been, and you stammer, "I-I've been OK, I guess". They tell a bad joke and you laugh and you are instantly somewhere else, a high school hallway, a crowded balcony, a tucked-away park, sitting on swings, passing a joint. The memories flood into your mind and the stories come fast and easy. And as you have been a walking casualty of life's plodding pace for what seems like months, you are instantly delivered, in one unexpected moment, into the light. While nothing about this conversation is particularly profound, you're once again aware that what you are and who you touch in your life truly matters. You hang up the phone and smile a wide, toothy grin to yourself. You turn on your computer and punch out a silly blog...
Then, on some idle Thursday, you receive a call from someone who you thought forgot about you years ago. Or perhaps it's someone you've known all along. And they innocently say that they had a fantastic dream about you, or that they found an old letter you wrote them and it made all the difference. They tell you that they have a tremendous amount of longing in their life, but they are getting through it as best they know how. They ask how you have been, and you stammer, "I-I've been OK, I guess". They tell a bad joke and you laugh and you are instantly somewhere else, a high school hallway, a crowded balcony, a tucked-away park, sitting on swings, passing a joint. The memories flood into your mind and the stories come fast and easy. And as you have been a walking casualty of life's plodding pace for what seems like months, you are instantly delivered, in one unexpected moment, into the light. While nothing about this conversation is particularly profound, you're once again aware that what you are and who you touch in your life truly matters. You hang up the phone and smile a wide, toothy grin to yourself. You turn on your computer and punch out a silly blog...
Have You Ever? Of Course You Have...
OK. So I've had a blog for about a week and I'm already slacking - Sounds like an enterprise I'm used to backing. Just like my bout with the dream journal (which was way too incriminating to have laying around my room). Just like the time I saw Rounders and I swore I was going to read every poker book available and morph into some Doyle Brunson-styled, whiskey drinking, calm demeanor having Texas Holdem dynamo of a card shark whose tight lips never moved unless, of course, a rube sat down at the table, at which point a delicate crease would form around my left (and only) dimple and the corner of my mouth would turn slightly upward as I'd soak in the situation, eight moves ahead of everyone. Just like the stencil business I baked up one night while I was baked, I mean, honestly, who can resist a cool stencil. And moreover, who wouldn't want to drop $3.99 on the ability to draw this No Puffin image wherever they please?
Exactly, its the boldest stoke of genius yet. And yet I'm just sitting on it.
One day... One day my friends...
OK. So we've all played that lame "Never Have I Ever" drinking game where girls feign shame for their sexual experience, sordid eccentricities are revealed and the resultant giggling can be heard for miles. As an aside, I love girls who get pissed off halfway through the game and try to one up their girlfriends with nuggets like "Never Have I Ever... let three members of the baseball team as well as a visiting high school junior from Alexandria rail me at the top of the stairs at the SPE house after bars while I was simulcast live over the internet two weekends ago." Never fails. High comedy. Anyway, I'm proposing something different. In a Seinfeld inspired move, I'm laying down a couple of observations about myself in the "Have you ever" format. Feel free to post a reply to this with one of your own. They are actually kinda fun to do, in that humbling kinda way...
Have you ever sat cross-legged (or Injun-style for all you insensitive types) for a pronounced period of time, and then, for some odd reason leapt up with the intentions of making haste? However, you've unwisely disregarded the possibility that the foot you have been sitting on for the past 25 minutes may have fallen asleep. Well, it has. And you drop as quickly as you rose after what can only be described as a 5-meter dash/limp/buckle/thud. Then all the people in the hallway immediately stop, mid-sentence, and crane their heads toward your crumbled assemblage of parts on the ground (some more alert than others). You sit there, acutely aware of all the eyes, the whispers, the muffled chortles... Naturally, your first reaction is to delegate your entire focus towards the offending hoof by repeatedly punching it while you mumble obscenities in a futile effort to rouse it. Well... its happened me. Good times.
Have you ever been so overtaken with such genuine fervor that you have bellowed out an exclamation of joy (in my case, a deep, drawn-out "Yeahhhhhhhhh") and felt compelled to high-five the person sitting next to you? Well, have you ever done it in a packed movie theater? Apparently, for me, witnessing an act of demonstrative retribution at the end of a film (when Darth Maul gets cut in half... at the end of the movie Hostel...) causes me to pump my fist proudly in the air irregardless of my surroundings. I'm basically the reason people shuffle out of movie houses discussing the plot devices, the funny parts, the actors acumen and then, when there is a lull, one of them causally muses to the other, "What was up with that jackass sitting in front of us..."
OK, I'm done...
You're Up...
Gettin the Ball Rollin
Not sure what I'm going to say now that I've gotten the ball rolling, or if anybody will care to read it, but I suppose thats really of no importance if I approach this thing as an ostensibly personal exercise. Blogs are, from my vantage, a semi-narcissistic pathway, a haphazardly constructed whim of strategically placed "pay-attention-to-me" concoctions. Now, this is not necessarily an indictment of this medium, however I do feel it is underutilized. I love knowing what my friends are thinking, especially the ones I pass infrequently because I'm not often to get on the horn just to chat. I like being in the loop without the legwork, the constant feeling of duty involved. Anyway, lets see how this thing sorts itself out...
I've got all the windows open and a gentle summer breeze is filtering in as I watch my Baby Bulls run out the clock in Game 3 against the Heat. Sipping some Jack and Coke, blasting the new Boss CD, watching the colors change on the horizon as the sun sets over the Pacific. Couldn't be happier to be strictly honest. For those of you who dont know, I'm moving back to Chicago in a little over a month to put the period on my one year experiment with the Bay Area. I'll get to that eventually, but what is currently on my mind is this basketball jones I've been feelin in my bones. I've always been addicted to the aesthetic of the game - filling the lanes on a break, making the extra pass, squaring your shoulders for a wide open three. Posting up with a shoulder dip fake to the right and a drop step left while you absorb the weakside help D with your upperbody and kiss it off the block with a quick wristflip/babyhook that you've practiced in your driveway thousands of times. The gymrat of my youth knows why I love this game so much, but lately it seems that this love has only grown. I think these Bulls have a lot to do with that. I mean, what a fun team to root for. Passionate, fundamental, intelligent. It's the way I've always tried to play basketball, to convey that deep affecting love for the game in every single facet, to display an ever evolving synergy with all members of your squad. By the way, its final, Bulls 109 - Heat 90 in a must win at the United Center. What an effort with your back to the wall. Heres something I wrote last year around this time about the way the basketball culture in Chicago has effected me:
The NBA playoffs set off some sort of chemical domino tumble in my head that always seem to get things going for me. I remember the early days at 20 West Burton, sitting in my favorite blue canvas chair, summer quick on my heels watching Jordan and company discover who they were against the Pistons. Losing, losing, losing and finally breaking through in 91 with that magical run. The playoffs set something off with me because there is no tomorrow in many cases and a year full of toil and strife boils down to a few moments, a good inbounds pass, a properly broken press, a conditioned soul. Watching my guys in the fray has been good for me, they are being tested as human beings, not only athletes. Deng, BG, Kirk, Nocioni, Tyson are all our age. I think that gets lost in the shuffle. They are at similar crossroads as we, albeit at vastly different addresses. I draw on their convictions and I relish in their victories much like I did as a small child and much like I will when Im old, bent over and full of laughter at where my life has taken me.
More to come...
I'm UP! I'm DOWN! I'm a Chicago Bulls Fan
It's official. The Chicago Bulls, as an organization, are the NBA's answer to the DSM-IV's criteria for Bipolar Disorder. It's a frenzied flip of a car after a 6th championship run in eight years. Its a somber swill of a cocktail after Brad Miller and Elton Brand are penciled in every year for All-Star honors. Simply put, its the Chicago Bulls.
The1970's saw the Bulls rise from middling franchise to perennial contender with a dynamic team-first ethic and hard-nosed defense. Bob Love's inside scoring touch and Jerry Sloan's tenacious D anchored a potent charge that produced back-to-back Conference Finals appearances in 1975-1976. Let it be known, though, that the doldrums quickly followed. Upon the departure of Love and Sloan, the Bulls quickly regressed to doormat status, an afterthought in the bustling NBA landscape. The Bulls would only notch one winning season until 1985 when Michael Jeffery Jordan landed on the scene. Not much needs to be said here, after six championships and accolades too numerous to count, the Bulls were the newly appointed gold standard. The rabid basketball fans in Chicago were once again falling down with stories to tell their grandchildren, the memories seemingly too thick to ever subside. However, once the greatness that was Jordan decided to hang 'em up after 13 mesmerizing seasons (Washington never happened, Im convinced), he also left a cautionary warning for rising superstars contemplating a jump to the Windy City. The "Last Dance" season of 1998 was punctuated with a rift between management and players due to then GM Jerry Krause's statement, "Players don't win championships, organizations win championships." Marquee talent such as KG, Tracy McGrady and Grant Hill passed on being centerpieces in Krauses rebuilding plan and as quickly as it came for the Bulls, it went...
...in a big way.
The Bulls averaged 16.5 wins over the next four seasons.
Now, I'll be the first to give Jerry Krause credit, he could construct an NBA team with the best of them. After all, it was his acumen that drafted Horace Grant, traded for Scottie Pippen and Bill Cartwright and acquired John Paxson in free agency. However, June 27th, 2001 will forever define him and his love for the tough sell. That is the day he traded Elton Brand for the rights to Tyson Chandler (the purported next Garnett) and then promptly drafted Eddy Curry (a Shaq-like frame with a fraction of the game). Some said that he needed that length inside to enable Crawford and Rose to stretch the floor. Others said it was a ploy to get butts in the seats once again after three last place finishes. Whatever the case, that move ultimately tenured his own resignation in 2003. From "Best Ever" to worst in the league in a matter of 18 months.
However, there was a ray of hope.
Enter John Paxson, who in just three short years has given this Manic-Depressive franchise something it hasn't had, well, ever. Stability. An even keel. The tempered expectations of a team built around a solid core of unselfish role players. It remains to be seen if the dizzying highs will ever return, however it is quite certain that the terrifying lows are gone for the foreseeable future. Chicago Bulls fans have many reasons to breathe a sigh of relief: The no nonsense approach of their bulldogged coach Scott Skiles. The tremendous upside of savvy players such as Andres Nocioni, Ben Gordon, Kirk Hinrich and Luol Deng. The possibilities of a first overall pick this June (Much thanks to Isiah Thomas). So while beating the Heat and advancing to the second round this year still remains a lofty goal, perhaps now those bleary winter nights outside the United Center wont seem as cold and full of those stupefying moments of a basketball city with an ever evolving identity crisis.
The1970's saw the Bulls rise from middling franchise to perennial contender with a dynamic team-first ethic and hard-nosed defense. Bob Love's inside scoring touch and Jerry Sloan's tenacious D anchored a potent charge that produced back-to-back Conference Finals appearances in 1975-1976. Let it be known, though, that the doldrums quickly followed. Upon the departure of Love and Sloan, the Bulls quickly regressed to doormat status, an afterthought in the bustling NBA landscape. The Bulls would only notch one winning season until 1985 when Michael Jeffery Jordan landed on the scene. Not much needs to be said here, after six championships and accolades too numerous to count, the Bulls were the newly appointed gold standard. The rabid basketball fans in Chicago were once again falling down with stories to tell their grandchildren, the memories seemingly too thick to ever subside. However, once the greatness that was Jordan decided to hang 'em up after 13 mesmerizing seasons (Washington never happened, Im convinced), he also left a cautionary warning for rising superstars contemplating a jump to the Windy City. The "Last Dance" season of 1998 was punctuated with a rift between management and players due to then GM Jerry Krause's statement, "Players don't win championships, organizations win championships." Marquee talent such as KG, Tracy McGrady and Grant Hill passed on being centerpieces in Krauses rebuilding plan and as quickly as it came for the Bulls, it went...
...in a big way.
The Bulls averaged 16.5 wins over the next four seasons.
Now, I'll be the first to give Jerry Krause credit, he could construct an NBA team with the best of them. After all, it was his acumen that drafted Horace Grant, traded for Scottie Pippen and Bill Cartwright and acquired John Paxson in free agency. However, June 27th, 2001 will forever define him and his love for the tough sell. That is the day he traded Elton Brand for the rights to Tyson Chandler (the purported next Garnett) and then promptly drafted Eddy Curry (a Shaq-like frame with a fraction of the game). Some said that he needed that length inside to enable Crawford and Rose to stretch the floor. Others said it was a ploy to get butts in the seats once again after three last place finishes. Whatever the case, that move ultimately tenured his own resignation in 2003. From "Best Ever" to worst in the league in a matter of 18 months.
However, there was a ray of hope.
Enter John Paxson, who in just three short years has given this Manic-Depressive franchise something it hasn't had, well, ever. Stability. An even keel. The tempered expectations of a team built around a solid core of unselfish role players. It remains to be seen if the dizzying highs will ever return, however it is quite certain that the terrifying lows are gone for the foreseeable future. Chicago Bulls fans have many reasons to breathe a sigh of relief: The no nonsense approach of their bulldogged coach Scott Skiles. The tremendous upside of savvy players such as Andres Nocioni, Ben Gordon, Kirk Hinrich and Luol Deng. The possibilities of a first overall pick this June (Much thanks to Isiah Thomas). So while beating the Heat and advancing to the second round this year still remains a lofty goal, perhaps now those bleary winter nights outside the United Center wont seem as cold and full of those stupefying moments of a basketball city with an ever evolving identity crisis.
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