where crushed dreams happen.


i've been watching the nba playoffs again. i stopped watching around 2002, the year that robert horry made that three pointer that killed the kings' chance of ever winning a championship. the only good thing that could've ever happened to this crummy town, and that goddamn will smith look-a-like had to ruin it. but last year the warriors beat the mavericks. for some reason, i found that interesting, and i watched and i believed until the jazz finally shut them down.

i think i watch basketball now because there's not really anything else stereotypically masculine about me. i wear small t-shirts and i sing better in a falsetto voice. i listen to sad bastard music and i don't drink alcohol. so, i lie on the couch and watch four quarters of a bunch of dudes trying to put a ball through a hoop. at one point, a few years ago, i started wondering why people continued to watch basketball. i guess i still do wonder about this. what's so fascinating about ten guys, mostly african-american, throwing a ball around for forty-eight minutes? chomsky once said that the sole function of organized sports is to distract the public from knowing what's really going on.

but is it really a distraction, or is it a mere reflection of what's been going on? we strike, and then we strike some more. occasionally, they strike back. but it's been a blowout, a clean sweep for hundreds of years; we are the michael jordan of government-sponsored violence. where genocide happens.

my mom told me that my classmate from high school, sam warburg, is number 142 of tennis players in the world. "if he won in mexico city," she reported, "he would've won $35,000." poor sam. i'm sorry he didn't win and that he couldn't add $35,000 (slightly above what i would've made for a full year of teaching) to his savings account. where old classmates who become much more successful than you happens.

i've been thinking a lot about what i want out of this life. my goals and desires fluctuate daily, sometimes even hourly. for a while today it was to have an empty house to myself and to play the guitar and start a garden so that i'd never have to go to the grocery store again. i'd like for it to rain. it hasn't rained in this area since january. and people still let the water run when they're doing dishes. i can't talk, though, since i take long, luxurious showers. in the middle of a hot shower, things make sense. i think about things to write about. i think about how i wish i'd never have to leave the shower. where the only ephemeral physical pleasure i receive amidst the drudgery of an unforgiving twenty-four hour day of meaningless existence happens.

alright, that was a bit negative. people who know me, though, know that i'm really not that much of a downer. in fact, at work, i even thank the old women for handing me more tests to grade. on the outside, i'm soft spoken and polite, but on the inside is a different story. i guess we're all like that, though. where my final and desperate, half-hearted attempt at being a part of the human race happens.

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