The Boxscore

Taken in the early goings of the 2nd round of the draft, he was touted as a natural talent, the sky the limit, an upside unbelievably high. He excelled through the minor leagues, tearing apart obstacles and poor pitching in the farm systems. Many believed him to be the second-coming of Dave Winfield, differentiated by a devilish smile and pale, white skin. His love of the game was immense and he didn't hide it, sometimes thought to be eccentric or outlandish, although his grin showed an honesty not seen  often these days.

Come Triple-A, things slowed down for him. Several injuries lead to a downturn in production, batting only .220 with no homers and a minuscule runs batted in total. His team saw no need for him and dumped him on another club, his hope for stardom dwindling with every 0-4, 3k trip to the park.

His woes continued through the season although his new organization still saw the potential hiding behind his icy, "can't miss" eyes. He changed his swing, his stance, his hair. He developed an attitude fit more for an inmate than a ballplayer. He grew tired of the massive questioning regarding his abilities, at one point thought to be far above the norm, now seen by many as a wasted talent. He developed bad habits and dabbled in worse. His team missed the playoffs come a fateful September evening after an error and bases-loaded ground out in the 9th inning to lose the clincher. How would you take that? Exactly.

In the offseason, he spent his time in a self-deprecating cocoon, fighting the ebb and flow of a disappointing (on many levels) life. His days were filled with grains and rye, his nights whatever he can find. He received a letter around March saying that he doesn't need to show up to spring training: "Good luck in your future ventures". Future ventures.

Several years later, he was signed by a local semi-pro ball club. After a "fluke" of a season, successfully completing the Triple Crown, his hope had been restored. He got a call from the Bigs. He answered ecstatically and followed the winding road back to where he began. An undeniable talent that never reached potential, fighting his way to the Big Leagues through seas of far less talented, yet somehow more successful .

Time will tell if he can become the next Dave Winfield. All we can say for sure is that with a past like that, the future has to be awfully bright.

Blunt Trauma

The title is a double entendre. Blunt like as in blunt force. But also as in like getting high as fuck, and it causing trauma.

If you're thinking "that's stupid!", you'd probably be right. My ideas are stupid. Sometimes marketable (according to my first few professors' mindless, hash-inspired rambling). But stupid.

I've never accomplished anything sweet. I probably never will. But in the meantime, I'm just gonna party. Fuck y'all. I'm out.

they speak of my drinking but never of my thirst

Thanksgiving was spectacular. So you all know, I did sweet stuff. What exactly is pretty irrelevant. What matters is that me and my friends are fucking kings.

In other news, it's almost Christmas. I'm so super pumped. Chances are I'm not even getting any sweet presents but I don't even care. I have the most bomb ass Christmas decorations in my apartment. I'm about ready to bust out the Brian Setzer Orchestra tunes.

And more importantly, I have a cute girl that can stand being around me enough to do it regularly. And she takes me to homosexual hangouts in Boystown and buys me white russians and makes me food. It's awesome.

I just finished my first real film, and  made my acting debut simultaneously. It's turning out really cool and I can't wait to see the finished product.

I'm just way too stoked right now to talk in coherent sentences or write about anything important, so I guess I'll leave it at that.

A few quicker thing(s)

Why?

A few quick things

A.) I thinkl there's a critter in the vents in my apartment. There's something scratching and/or clawing around up there at all hours of the day. At first, I thought the amazon girl upstairs was getting railed for hours but I came to the realization that 1.) no one would have sex with her and 2.) the sound is too close to be upstairs. I feel as if I should put a grenade up there and end it's life. If it is indeed a creature of doom, then it hasn't moved in days, and its time is about ready to be up. Hasta la vista, faggotcreature.

B.) I found $30 in $5 bills in my pants the other day. How does one come about six $5 bills without eventually spending one? I am both confused and impressed by my subconscious self-control. To be fair, I wore the same pair of jeans for approximately two and a half weeks without washing them, but still.

3.) I've been talking about our lord and savior Jesus Christ a lot lately. I don't know why. I feel like he's a good point for any argument, real or not. EG: "you're a dickhead" = "jesus christ wouldn't use that type of language. you're going to hell." "I can't do it. it's too hard" = "that's what jesus said".
See what I mean?

Anyway, that's about it. I don't care about politics that much today. It's too depressing and ignorant to have any part with. Jesus wouldn't vote for these morons.

Enjoy life.
Alex

First Reflections of the Second City

Chicago is a queer place. No, I'm not talking about the fairies in my fiction writing class. I'm talking about how strange this place is. The buses are never on time. To the point I make sure to leave late so I'm not waiting 20 minutes, chain-smoking with an elderly Asian man who looks nothing like Mr. Miyagi. The thugs on the train stare at me and sometimes mutter shit under their breath when they walk by me. They all wear Yankees hats (wrong city, asshole). I get nauseous on the 5th floor of the film building. You can't drive after 3 pm anywhere remotely close to downtown. Rent is high, beer is expensive and common decency is low. When I walk into a neighborhood bar, it gets quiet as the regulars size me up in a few brief, but eternal, seconds. Jesus doesn't save and it's not even called the Sears Tower anymore. Might as well just run some planes into it.

But whatever. It's sweet. I live in Chicago. My kinda town. The movie theaters have bars in them and the drinks only cost $15. My kinda movie theater. The sluts dress nicer and there's way more homeless people than back home. My kinda street walkers and social deviants.

Overall, I've only been up here for a while now, and most of the time has been spent riding on public transit or sitting in uncomfortable stadium-style seating at an over-priced, underwhelming college. So, like I said, this is just the tip of the iceberg. Just the tip. in ur butt

That's a big 10-4 captain.

if your mother asks where you've been

tell her you don't know and you won't be coming home until the clock strikes 13