I believe it was Harlan Ellison quoting Oscar Wilde who once said, “to reject one’s own experiences is to arrest one’s own development.” So, let me not be arrested. And let’s talk, you and I. Let’s talk about Saquon Barkley. Continue reading “An Ode to Saquon Barkley”
“Repent, Harlequin!” Said the Pitch-Clock Man
I am sitting in a half-empty Barney’s Beanery on Santa Monica Boulevard, and like normal, I am complaining. My beloved Philadelphia Phillies have just crashed and burned in the second round of the MLB playoffs, and for the zillionth year in a row, we’ll go home full of what ifs, maybes, and might-have-beens, rather than results.
Continue reading ““Repent, Harlequin!” Said the Pitch-Clock Man”
In Memory of Paul Auster: The Dead Writer Who Made Me Feel Alive
The year was 2020, and the place was New York, and our depressed protagonist of that moment was me. Like everybody else, I was trying to find ways to stay sane. Taking long walks through the city. Watching Love Is Blind and Tiger King and Ozark in an apartment with my girlfriend where we’d just wiped down all the groceries with Clorox. Getting on several anti-depressants. It’s hard to remember what was March and what was April and what was May of that year.
One day I was being sent to work from home, the next, Rudy Gobert was rubbing a microphone, and suddenly the world was gone, and we all fell into a Randolph Carter half-slumber.
And then there was Paul Auster. The writer whose words woke me up.
Continue reading “In Memory of Paul Auster: The Dead Writer Who Made Me Feel Alive”
Empty Hand of Hearts
It’s nearly midnight, and I’m sitting in the parking lot of a Popeyes Chicken in South Central LA. I got mugged here recently.
That day really sucked. First there was nonsense at work. Then there was nonsense with my friends. Then there was nonsense with my car. If you’ve read Alexander and Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day – or just kind of get the gist of the title – then you get the idea. By the time it was 6pm, I needed something stronger than a drink. I needed poker.
Just Swing at Everything, Why Don’t You?
The 2023 Phils.
This whole team is sick with home run fever. And they’re all out of home runs.
Being a Sixers Fan is Embarrassing
The other day, my friend Michael was chastised by his boss for forgetting to do something simple. “You’re too smart to be making such sloppy mistakes,” he said. And Michael, sick of being talked to this way, retorted that the job had simply not given him a reason to care. He was making mistakes because he was burned out, they hadn’t promoted him, and he was being paid nearly minimum wage. Now, mileage may vary on each side of this argument. You could say that the reason Michael isn’t being promoted or making more money is because he doesn’t care enough. You could say the reason the boss is displeased is because he doesn’t empower Michael or give him a reason to care. It’s a chicken or the egg argument. But either way, you could make a valid point.
So what fucking excuse do the Sixers have?
Begho, Remembered
Some words about my friend, who I miss already, Begho Ukueberuwa. He passed away today at only 27. It’s a staggering and heartbreaking loss. Rest in peace.
The Sixers Are Going To Kill Me
I haven’t returned in a long time to blogging, but the Sixers have made it impossible to not write. They are going to put me in an early fucking grave.