A More Practical Adventure

       I walked into a coffee shop the other day, sat down, and thought to myself “why the hell am I going crazy over this?” I have two and a half months before the interview. It’s just an interview. It’s my job. I am not headed off to marry Evel Knievel. I’m not going to ever understand the inner workings of his soul. He’s not going to take out a pistol and shoot me in the head just because I want to know what it was like when he purchased his first bike.

         Or at least I hope he won’t.

         Essentially, I will ask him the questions that I need to ask, I will get paid for it afterwards, and I will use that money to walk into the same coffee shop, get the same coffee, and stare into the same creamer thinking I see reflections of a more adventurous life.

         “Wow, I am sorry S.O.B.” I heard run through my conscience in Evel Knievel’s voice. So I got up and ordered a different beverage.

…Adventure.

         Though I was thoroughly content with my spontaneous outburst of an alternative routine that day, the second I hit my pillow I also hit my deeper fears. Why don’t I have a motorcycle?

          I’ve asked this question a million times: Is it really that I have an obsession with Evel, or do I just have an obsession with Evel’s life? Do I want Evel’s life.

          I could see that. World’s top female daredevil! Watch this Greek goddess sore! Every bone in her body has been broken! Twice! And she still charges off the platform in flaming, metallic high-heels!

          Perhaps I could start dreaming about that rather than having these crazy nightmares about Evel Knievel’s crushing essence.

           Or maybe I should just stick to my mini-coffee revolts until I get closer to the interview.

We’ll see. 

Spinning Out of Control

I had another dream last night about the interview. I sat down on this steel bench across from whom I thought was Evel Knievel. I start to ask the questions on my note-pad but when I look down at its white, lined surface there is nothing there but a blank void.

You’d think at this point it was just your average stress dream: Can’t think of the questions; you're in your underwear; you're late for work; being chased by a bear; yaddah yaddah… but it’s become so much more convoluted.

As I stared dumbfounded at the white expanse of my note-pad, trying desperately to think of just one question to ask, the figure previously thought of as Evel began to shift in its seat. Taking a closer look, I realized that it was not Evel, but rather a person wearing a veil with Evel’s face on it. Who was underneath? As I reached towards the veil, a hand reached out behind it towards my face. It appeared to be a woman’s hand.

Suddenly my mouth was full of questions flying off my tongue like Evel himself soaring off a ramp. But with each question I asked, this veiled woman only echoed back with a stranger question.

‘What do you dream about, Evel?

                        You really want to be Knievel?

What’s your proudest moment Bobby?

                        How can you make a living from some reckless hobby?

What was your family’s response to your career?

                        Is it really worth the soulless cheer?’

What do you want people to remember you by?

                        Do you even care that I might watch you die?...”

This went on for several rounds and each time I asked a question I was pulled closer and closer to the figure. Eventually I was close enough to reach the veil and rip it off.

And when I did, behind the veil was some weird collage of all of Evel’s past lovers. But the face had Evel’s steely eyes with my mouth yelling ferociously “What is it of your business?! You're just like all the other yuppie reporters! All you wanna hear about is fame and money and you don’t give a single damn about the truth! You want a lie! You want a lie! You are a lie!”

            And then I woke up, wobbled a little bit, and stared myself dead in the eyes. At some point in the middle of that dream I had wandered into my bathroom and begun screaming into my mirror. I think this project is driving me a little mad. I think Evel was a little mad. I think Evel is driving me a little mad…

Either way, it seams I’ve finally departed from my sanity. I’ve truthfully taken off from my own ramp on this one. I’m flying now –whether that’s a good or a bad thing- and I just hope I land in one piece.

http://www.ftfworks.org/

Wasn’t Evel Evil?

It makes sense for Evel Kneivel to pray. After all, a man’s got to believe in something outside of himself when he’s turned himself into his own prey. I can’t say that I haven’t let out a few prayers in preparation for this interview with him.

Though I do at times get a little concerned that my obsession with Evel has turned him into a little bit of an idol for me.

I wouldn’t be the first. When Evel was baptized, it triggered hundreds of people to rush forward in hopes of their own holy shower. Though I’m not sure how many followed his vows to walk away form “the gold and the gambling and the booze and the women”; I’m not even sure if Evel followed that vow.

You have to wonder if what Evel was doing –repeatedly risking his life—could be considered a sin or not. If there is a God, does this God frown upon spectacle at the risk of one’s life?

The most peculiar thing about it is that they call him a born again Christian. We’ve seen Evel born again. We’ve seen Evel come back to life on so many occasions. We already discussed how half the bones and all the blood in Evel’s body aren’t even his… perhaps he ended up with enough body parts from other Christian’s in is body that that’s what made the switch?

When I was little I went to a large Baptist church. It wasn’t that much different from seeing Evel Knievel make a jump. The audience was just as captivated staring at a man making rather wild gestures that had something to do with life or death. I don’t go to church anymore, and I’m not quite sure what I believe, but perhaps that’s part of where my fascination with Evel comes from, some collection of neurons still want some human being to stand up and demonstrate an act of faith –religious or not- that reveals something significant about fate. 

http://www.ftfworks.org/

Won't you fly? Or will you fall?

It’s not just Evel; we’re all cyborgs in this strange world. I realized this the other day while typing up some questions and researching more on his life. I don’t think Evel is just Evel. Evel is more of an attractive symbol of this churning machine that makes up human nature. We all want to be a hero. We all want to fly. We all make our lives dependent on something external, causing us to be somehow organically bionic creatures of desire.

We have our goals, our tasks, routines, functions, and we all have our dreams. We want to fly. I want to fly. Do you?

I sometimes think before going to sleep “am I really that interested in Evel Knievel? Or am I just interested in becoming Evel Knievel?”  The reason we are all so obsessed with these daredevils, Olympians, and rebellious pioneers is that they give us some sense of hope. Some sense that we can jump over a thousand monster filled crates and not go plummeting down into them! Some sense that we can jump over a million, flaming lions and just keep flying away! It gives us a sense that we could just take the simple jumps and risks in our own lives and not fall flat on our faces.

I dream about meeting Evel and failing… I dream about falling. I make eye contact with him, he hits the ramp flying away from me and I just sink. I’m falling away from everything, from this opportunity, from my purpose, paralyzed by the intensity in his eyes.

What will his eyes look like in person?

I realize it’s not just a fear of meeting him, it’s a fear of meeting myself too; of seeing my own failings reflected in his pupils. He has literally risked his life on so many, fully public occasions. I am afraid to encounter my bionic self and realize it’s just an unarmed, naked me.

I want to be a gladiator too. I will take my jumps. This jump. Wouldn’t you? Won’t you? Won’t you fly? I will. Will I? Well, we’ll see.