Author Archives: Christopher Walken

About Christopher Walken

I am Christopher Walken, promoter of cow bell.

File under: Legendary Rowers

Meet my friend Pat Quesnel, the first person to row solo across the Pacific . . .

I was looking around for photos for a project using these terms: man and boat, man and row boat, small boat and man, arctic row boat, Faroes row boat, falling row boat, row boat tiny, row boat at sea, row boat ocean, rowing archive, rowing museum, Faroes metal boats tiny Ocean, skiff, skiff and man, high-walled skiff, and Faroes skiff. This photo turned up on ebay and I thought “Well, maybe. It’s a newspaper photo, rights should be reasonable,” and so I saved a copy in my project folder. I rejected the photo for the job but bothered to read the caption before I tossed it and, fuck a Roosevelt Elk, it’s my old friend Pat Quesnel from Kodiak, the first person to row solo across the Pacific. I have not contacted him in years but I still miss his company.
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Zizek on Zizek in the Guardian at more length than necessary but still, in part, amusing:

“For me, the idea of hell is the American type of parties. Or, when they ask me to give a talk, and they say something like, ‘After the talk there will just be a small reception’ – I know this is hell. This means all the frustrated idiots, who are not able to ask you a question at the end of the talk, come to you and, usually, they start: ‘Professor Žižek, I know you must be tired, but …’ Well, fuck you. If you know that I am tired, why are you asking me? I’m really more and more becoming Stalinist. Liberals always say about totalitarians that they like humanity, as such, but they have no empathy for concrete people, no? OK, that fits me perfectly. Humanity? Yes, it’s OK – some great talks, some great arts. Concrete people? No, 99% are boring idiots.”

Most of all, he can’t stand students. “Absolutely. I was shocked, for example, once, a student approached me in the US, when I was still teaching a class – which I will never do again – and he told me: ‘You know, professor, it interested me what you were saying yesterday, and I thought, I don’t know what my paper should be about. Could you please give me some more thoughts and then maybe some idea will pop up.’ Fuck him! Who I am to do that?”

Žižek has had to quit most of his teaching posts in Europe and America, to get away from these intolerable students. “I especially hate when they come to me with personal problems. My standard line is: ‘Look at me, look at my tics, don’t you see that I’m mad? How can you even think about asking a mad man like me to help you in personal problems, no?'”

Where I Keep My Soul

Wheels up in 8 hours.

Just outside my window a handful of high-school-age boys has gathered to use the word, “Niggaz,” in various animated sentences. I think they’re probably carrying the prerequisite for unwrapping the noun but I don’t know that they’ve earned the mandate to paint my windows and ears with their brand of its particular musicality. Not at 2:30 in the morning.

“OY! Poet Laureates!” I say, gaining their undivided attention as is my wont. “Show yourselves some respect and shut the fuck up. Not necessarily in that order!”

I take a step back to step in and therefore find two piles of stringy, slippery, warm, sticky, and putrescent dog puke at the head of the bed.

Green like something Superman might shun.

Dog’s like, “Fight the poweh!”

So I’m retching and scraping up these piles of bile and nastiness that by rights should have found their path all the way to my dog’s butt hole and, by consequence, into my neighbors Hydrangeas when a piece flicks off my lip and up my nostril.

I freeze because nothing can hurt you when you’re standing still. Silence. A complete silence that smells like bile and tastes like guts.

“BLAMMO!” A beer bottle hits my window. When it does that it makes the sound, BLAMMO! as one would expect. In my case however I didn’t see “BLAMMO!” coming. I was anticipating silence and as such the piece of partially digested dog gut booger that flicked off of my lip is now lodged firmly behind my eye and maybe in my brain.

That’s where I keep my soul, people.

I know, right?

Wheels up in 6 hours.

Stupid SEA-TAC.

Stupid dog.

Stupid guys who call each other, “Niggaz.”

Hateful.

A Fine Girl.

Ricardo and Geoffrey are getting married in August. They’re in the city for the weekend to shop for bow ties and hats.
We’ve all heard about the new martini bar down on Second and who wouldn’t be up for martinis and tapas after a day such as this?
On the way downtown we got tangled up in some nonsense and – long story short – there was a body in the alley and police and stuff.
Sort of messed up the reservation but they held our table anyway and I thought that awfully decent of them.
“I wonder what the deal was with that dead dude,” says my companion.
People die all of the time.
“People die all the time,” I explain.
“Not in alleys they don’t,” she argues. “The police didn’t even bother to cover his feet. That’s just rude.”
She’s not from around here.
Brandy bounces to our table. “Are y’all to order?” she giggle-smile-grin-asks.
I think we’re going to need a few minutes, Brandy.