I stood up at the front of the room in a poorly cut blazer looking out into a crowd of most everyone I knew, with a ring clutched in my sweaty hand shoved in my pocket. At this point Brandon knew it was better not trust me with little things, as I was incredibly talented at breaking or misplacing them. But then again this little ring was not so little at all. This ring was last the big adventure that we Antkowiak brothers would embark on. Bigger than secretly carrying our science teachers small sedan into the field next to the parking lot. Bigger than getting lost in the woods for nine hours and having our mother call the police. Bigger than all the holes we had punched in walls, bigger than any guy we had decked in lacrosse, bigger than any cigars we ever smoked, bigger than any fort that we had ever built. As the eighty-year-old man of God announced that Brandon had become one flesh with the radiant woman standing next to him, Brandon looked at me, and they asked me for the ring. Against all odds I still had it, hidden in the creases of my sweaty palm. They exchanged rings and love and a very long kiss and rode of into the west. Our adventures would continue but never in the same way. She now has his love and his child and his ring, and will forever. But I still have a piece of Brandon that will always stay with me. His mark is stamped six inches below my left knee, hidden under hair: four evenly spaced dots, almost as if I had been stabbed by a fork.

Tyler Antkowiak
Friday, January 22, 2010
Chalcedon Term
294 Words

My eyes widened in shock and so did his. As his gaze jerked back and forth from just below my knee to my startled face, his jaw dropped in amazement, and slowly cranked itself back up into a smirk. I had been sitting on the couch and he was washing dishes. We had been arguing about something of monumental importance. To this day I cannot remember if it was concerning a Platonic verses an Aristotelian understanding of the forms, or if we were revisiting the probable outcome of a fight between the Incredible Hulk and Superman. Whatever we may have been arguing, I clearly had just made a brilliant rhetorical move, which always signaled that the verbal part of the debates had come to an end. He made the first argument in the physical phase of the debate, nonchalantly leaning over the sink and throwing something, with most of the force that a two hundred pound fourteen year old can muster. My eyes widened in shock and so did his. Plato and Clark Kent were forgotten, as he walked over to the couch to get a closer look. At this point, we were both trying to suppress laughs, pain making it considerably easier for me. Once we had both decided that our cousin had not spiked the orange juice, and we really were seeing what we saw, I leaned forward and pulled the fork out of my shin. Dear reader, if you find this story at all unsettling, read no farther. The tales contained in this tome, of frog genocide, dented cars, and dead men on the road, will be far too much for you. But if this sounds like you brand of bubble gum, continue on into the chronicles of the Brothers Antkowiak.

on (not) being "indie"

Firstly of all, did you notice how much I communicated with mere punctuation in the title.

Secondly of all, I am not nor have I ever been considered part of the indie crowd. What is the indie crowd you ask? My outside perspective leads me to believe that to be indie is to: wear tight second-hand clothes, or tight clothes that look second hand. The indie crowd enjoys scarves, music that i haven't heard of in which i cannot always discern a melody, poetry (particularly free verse), romance, pencil art, cigarettes, pencil art about romance and cigarettes, film photography, organics, and awkwardness in movies. (side note: the word awkwardness is like an ugly sibling, it doesn't get any better looking the more you stare at it, but you start to think one day you'll really enjoy hanging out with it) Anyway, this is where i start my tirade against the indie subculture, right? Naa, maybe later. I like them. some of my good friends fit one or more of the criteria for being indie. and I love them for it. But I just can't seem to get on board. First of all, people cringe when they hear the words " Antkowiak" and "skinny jeans" in the same sentence. Secondly scarves really don't do anything to help the appearance of the already existing disparity between the size of my head and the size of my body. As far as the music goes, i just don't really do the whole longing thing. I get angry, i lust, i love, i laugh, and I cry. There's just no room for longing in here. I'm all for romance, but I fell like we would be talking about very different things. Its the same with the pencil drawings. ... this post started as a fun venue for self deprecation, but i think that if i keep going i'll start stepping on toes that i love and care about, so I guess that thats about all for now...


OH! Wait! I remember now. The thing that got me going was: What is the deal with the indie subculture and cigarettes? I like a (high quality, no additive) cigarette as much as the next guy, but honestly, what's going on? Are they sexy? Are they revolutionary? I just don't get it. Thoughts?