MAX TURBO

Tomek, your image hasn't served me well in Poland.

Your curly poofy hair. Your nerd glasses. Your slim figure. Your love of wearing scarves in warm weather.

Too many times now Polish Buraki (meatheads) with their shaved heads and their Puma runners have snickered and giggled as you've passed by. Too many times you've just nearly avoided getting punched in the face. Too many times people have called you 'gej'.

No. This night Tomek died. And MAX TURBO was born...


The last photo of Tomek Roszkowski before intensive Image Reconstruction Surgery.

Tomek
RIP
Oct 14, 1977 - April 22, 2006.

Neither Tomek, nor MAX TURBO, this in between entity had no name, no soul and no chance of getting laid.
Hello, Polish girls. The name is MAX TURBO. And yes, I fuck on the first date.

Hi, Polish Buraki. The name's MAX TURBO. I came here for two reasons, to eat pierogi, and to kick some ass....and I'm all out of pierogi.
Hi, Polish television audience. No, I'm not that guy from the new show Starsky & Hutch that premiered last week on PolSAT. I'm MAX TURBO.

Check!

One down, 9 to go Craig. Hurry up, there's only 2 months left.

by the way, the only other Roszkowski on that list is Dorota, my middle aged aunt, and she's in Canada, so you're going to have to branch out a bit...non Roszkowski's need love too.

Goodbye, sweet world

Agnes' departure left a hole in Craig's life that could not be filled, even by a disgusting English breakfast. It was then, in the middle of his fryup and on the verge of insanity, that the sausage convinced him to take his own life. 4 failed suicide attempts, one successful. Goodbye Craig, I will pass the message to the mice that you supposedly loved, but left behind a dumpster that one cold winter day, that you died bitter, lonely and full of regret.

The day she left even sausages cried...
Art reflects life. Even culinary art.

Suicide attempt #1. But we hadn't paid the gas bill.
Attempt #2. The self asphyxiation gave him a massive erection, but nothing more.
Attempt #3: White rabbit...
Craig + radio = Craigo.
Attempt #4: Won him respect from Polish breakdancers, but didn't kill him.
You can't beat gravity.
Maluch owners of the world, breathe a sigh of relief. The reign of terror is over.

We'll see you in Hell, Craigster.

Goodbye, Agnes

Well, we made it through five months or so together. I don't think that we've spent this much time together since we were 4 years old. We made it through tears, beers, your extra 12 pounds, my imaginary weight gain, and a mutual new found love for pierogi with meat. We fought at times, you were in the wrong each time, but for the last few months got along really well. It feels weird now that you're gone, especially since now it's really nice out and it finally looks like what I wanted you to see, sunny, colourful and bustling with activity.

And now you're home for the first time after living abroad, and home is something different and strange. Scary? Surreal? Disappointing? Disorienting? Difficult to recognize? It comes to pass in a few weeks, but hold onto the important thing you realized: that 'real life' is an idea that people that never have the balls to leave home push onto you, that a real and fulfilling and crazy and difficult life awaits you when you risk it all again and being life in a new country with new people.

You're going to get advice from two different camps now, those that tell you to suck it up, that you had your fun, and now it's time to get used to real life and grow up. They think that feeling you have now is something to be swallowed up and ignored.

The others, the minority, but the brilliant ones, will tell you that you just had a taste, and that feeling you have right now is your heart reminding you when you took a big risk you were really alive, really scared, really happy, and each day was different and meant something. Home will always be there waiting for you, so eat some bean burritos and get the hell out of there again!


Cheer up junior, Poland was just the start...

Computerized rendering of what Agnes would have looked like by the first snowfall of next year.