Just Chow;9:17pm

how do i write to you without it being a novel? without including every single experience we’ve shared? every single adventure? every single broken heart? every single drop of alcohol? every mile we’ve stepped across over and over and over again across this vast country known as lons angeles? there are millions, my friend, and unfortunately, due to old age and the combination of large amounts of drugs and liquor, i can’t recall every single one of them. which is too bad, too. because if there’s anyone in this life who can really understand what i’ve done, what i’ve been through, and why i am the way i am, it’s you. you were witness to most of the defining moments of my life. and you know, for every word i write down on a piece of paper or “paper”, ultimately, when it gets down to it, you’re the motherfucker i write to.

chow. choedsak. sammy davis jr. chodas the barbarian. woch dogbeard. grimchow jaguarjack. the great panther. the immortal fae king who hath quoted many a memorable line such as, “fuck shit fuck!” or “i got to cool off!” or “red and blue make green!” or “fucking moron, eart!” and there is no one who can make a whole world feel the letters WTF typed like you. my friend, you are the catalyst to so many things in this life that drip away from the mundane. this makes you the one closest to the Undeniable than any person i know.

remember that night we were at your house on strathern? oliver, you, me, and anthony were drinking some absinthe? and we got so fucked up? we played some pisoy dos, but soon ventured out into the night looking for things that weren’t there? i remember i took to the middle of the street, chasing the moon, wanting to recite to her the most powerful poem in the world. anthony chased after me. we ended up in a fist fight and i bloodied his mouth while he sprained my ankle. the cops came and left us alone because they saw him crying. somehow i tricked him into telling me his life story while we wer ebeating each other to a pulp. but that’s not the interesting part of the story. the interesting part of the story was that while me and anthony went down one direction of strathern, oliver had to get in his car and chase you down the other direction. you were barefoot, from what i heard, and the only words you were shouting was, “i have to catch her! i have to catch her! my blue and green elf fairy!” you ran like electricity, oliver said. and, in his car, couldn’t catch you for thirteen blocks. you really saw that blue and green fairy. you really did. sometimes when i think abotu this story, maybe if oliver had let you get to the fourteenth block, you might’ve actually caught her.

remember that time when we were playing softball down at the grant high school diamond? we all had our jerseys with our names on it? i had spider-man and you had the panther? hana had casino and ernie had big ern? phil was boring and just had phil, and jomarr was cheesy and had his girlfriend lorena on his? remember everyone was doing good. hitting where we wanted, double playing, altogether infusing the chemistry we needed to win the championship. everyone except you. we all know you aren’t the most physically gifted. nor are you the most athletic. but you were on the team and your heart was with us. but you just couldn’t get into the same groove as us that day. and after practice, you were so hard on yourself you decided to walk home. that was an hour walk, dude. i had a car. in fact, i drove you there. i was following you telling yo uto get in the car. you said no. you had your baseball bat sheathed in your backpack. your shoulders were slouched. your walk was so very sad. i said, “don’t worry about it, man. let me take you home.” you said, “just leave me the fuck alone, ed! i wanna be alone! i need to cool off!” i said, “c;mon man. i’m not going to let you walk home. i got a god damned car, dude.” you said, “fuck, ed! leave me alone!” i stopped the car. jumped out and stood in front of you. i said, “get in the car, chow.” you said, while trying to get around me, “move, ed! let me walk home!” again, you weren’t the most athletic so you couldn’t around me. plus i was bigger. and then you blew up. dude, you took your baseball bat out of your backpack and started swinging. you almost took my head off! and as i moved out of the way, you just kept on swinging. i realized you weren’t trying to hit me, you were swinging because, well, fucking shit, you just needed to swing. and you kept swinging it, persperation mixing with tears mixing with the bestial gurgles that came out of your mouth as your battlecry. for a good three minutes. and when you were done, you slumped on the sidewalk, panting, staring off into space. at that moment i figured out why you were acting so weird. it was all over your baseball bat. the baseball bat you bought the week before because you were so happy you were on a softball team with friends. next to the baseball glove you bought two weeks before because we asked you if you wanted to play with us. used by the same dude wearing the softball jersey that we all bought together three days before this practice. i looked at you, put my hand on your shoulder and said, “you ready, man?” you didn’t even look up. you just got up and got in my car and let me drive you home.

remember that night club called, circus? me and the fellas would go there every so often, drink, try to pick up girls, dance, and basically, have a socially retarded time? remember we asked if you wanted to go? and you went. and since that was going to be your first time EVER at a night club, you wanted to prepare. you made these cards. out of cardboard. that you sized and cut yourself. and it read, “for a cone of ice cream and a cool conversation, call, chow. 818-XXX-XXXX.” you made fifty of them. and i didn’t even know you did that until the end of the night when i see you sitting in the corner of the club, by yourself, looking depressed as shit. i walked over to you and asked, “what the fuck, dude. how come your not humping?” you didn’t even look at me. you handed me one of those cards, one of those cards you probsbly worked hours on, believing to the very core that you would find a princess among these people. i read it, let out a sigh, and then we went off to go eat some tommy’s on roscoe.

you’ve never had it easy, dude. i don’t know what it is about you. i don’t know why these types of things ALWAYS happen to you. some people say it’s because you don’t think right. i don’t agree with that. i just think people don’t think like you. and when you try to connect with them, it just doesn’t work out, and then for some fucking reason, it turns out embarrassing the hell out of you. and, dude, it always happens to you.  you don’t have a drivers license, can’t drive a car, was virgin for 31 years, your little brother can kick your ass, legally have never had a job in your entire life, still lives with your parents, and has never had a girlfriend. people would look at you and call you the biggest loser that has ever stumbled on earth. but you never agreed for one second. you always believed that wasn’t you. those things never got you down. like you always knew things would get better. even though, statistically speaking, it never did.

the one experience i remember the most was a night that happened about eight years ago. oliver was just getting over meth and was hanging out with you a lot because you didn’t touch anything except jack daniels. he was over you house, chillin’, talking abvout anime and video games. he called me up to see what i was doing. i said, not a damn thing. he said, come on over, bro-thar! i said, i’ll be right there. and i came over. you, me, and oliver, like old times. we drank, talked about final fantasy, the playstation II, the x-box, the new fighting games, your growing anime collection, you know. shit that cool dudes talk about. and we’re getting drunk and fucked up, and oliver is getting me high as shit, when you go off and take a shit. so it’s me and oliver sitting there in your room laughing it up talking about old times. when all of a sudden, he gets real somber. he looks me straight in the eyes and said, “yo, man. i got to talk to you. let’s go outside real quick.” i was like, oh fuck. them dealers are after him again. damn it. i got to relearn my tai chi chuan. so we go outside, i spark up a cig and he sparks up a bowl. after a good rip, as he exhales, he said to me, “yo man. i was reading chows journal, right? and i know i ain’t supposed to be doing shit like that, but yo, man, i was high. and i was bored. and i figured i might as well get a kick out of his writing. you know. he’s a good writer and all. always writing in that journal of his. i figure it might have some interesting stories and shit. and yo, it ain’t half bad. the way he writes and shit, ya know. his poems are pretty cool. you know, that shit ain’t really my thang, but you know. i liked it.” i interrupted. “yo, oliver. what did you find out?” he replied, “oh yeah. so i get to this point in his journal. it was dated last week, right? and it’s a fucking suicide letter.” oh man…i think to myself. that’s bad. chow has lost all his hope. all that he had left. all that made chow, well, chow. the only thing that seperated him from all the ugly people in the world. he done gone and quit. “so i’m reading it, right? and he goes on and apologizes to his brother for not being strong enough for him. apologizes to his mother and father for not being the ideal first born and shit. then, this is where it really gets weird. but not bad weird. just weird because i don’t know what to do about it. you know me, man. i ain’t too good with this emotion shit. i like getting high, getting drunk, and talking about video games. that pretty much sums me up.” i interrupted again.” oliver…” he said, “right. sorry. anyway, he goes on to write that you and me are his best friends. that if anything happened to him he would want us to have all of his belongings. all the anime, all his fantasy books, all his money even. he says in his writing that we’re the only two people that really understand him enough to treasure what he believes is beautiful. ain’t that some shit? i mean, what the fuck, right? wanna hit this?” i nod my head. as i take a rip from his glass pipe, i start thinking. geez. poor chow. and then i instantly get high because oliver always has some of the best shit around.

but see, bro. chow. chowblin. corn. i didn’t take that lightly. i don’t know if i really know you or understand you the way you think i do, but i do know this. i know you’re a better person than me. i know you see things in this life that i can only read about in your stories and your poems. i know that i am a better person as your friend than as one of your attackers. you may not know this chow, but you’re one of my biggest inspirations to write. the heart that you have, the will that you possess, the beauty that is inside of you, that is so fucking magical i feel i have the responsibility to write about it. just because i’m around it. i have to man. and i figure it has to be just because the sotries abotu you are my fucking masterpeices! go figure!

i took you to all the shows, all the poetry readings, all the cafes, all the spots where people were sharing Art. and you shared a few things, too. and people loved it. brother, you are a writer. you are one of the Undeniables. shit, man, you were at the first Writers Workshop in Gardena. remember? where you pulled your own tooth out? you crazy fuck.

all i’m saying is this, you dick. you wrote one chapter for your novel. seven months ago. and i haven’t heard from you since. that is unacceptable, fool. people need to hear your voice. people need to know who the fuck you are. because, i swear, you bastard, by association, they will become better people. i’m giving you this space on the internet to share your shit, you fucker. use it. or else i will come down to your house and rip the world of warcraft program out of your computer.

seriously, chow. my brother. and i mean that from the bottom of my heart. get back to writing. join the thing you helped create. let’s finish this. let’s go all the way with this. this could be what you’ve been waiting for all this time.

write.

you bastard.