Harry Winebunkle would make this pigeon look like a child’s play-dough. By Pudelek (Marcin Szala) (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Recently, while perusing our current crop of fan letters, I stumbled upon this not-so-anonymous letter from a man by the name of Harry Winebunkle. Harry wrote the entire letter in beautiful cursive font with what looked like quill ink.

Surprisingly, he followed up with an email regarding the letter he sent. In the email he wrote: “I am fifth-generation American-born Winebunkle. Because of that, I have an uncanny ability to speak the truth, a truth that sometimes smells a bit like the hind quarters of a donkey. No matter, please hear me out.”

So we are. And so will the rest of you, including the source of his angst, Cal Poly men’s basketball.

“Dearest Fansmanship founders, fansmanshippers, and most importantly, Cal Poly men’s basketball team and Coach Joe Callero,

It is with great sadness that I write this letter. Mainly because as I humbly notate the longings of my discomfort, a lamb leg on top a candied walnut spinach salad, topped with decadent Armenian feta cheese and Northern African cranberries, goes flaccid and cold. That is not the type of meal to avoid considering many people are doomed to lives filled with boxed mac n’ cheese and  frozen fish sticks.  Currently I’m sitting in my mahogany study, petting a cat by the name of Buchanon, next to two candle flames rapping the paint flecked finish on my various displays of clay pigeon art. What is clay pigeon art? It is a clay pigeon carved out of a clay pigeon.  

I generally sport a velour track suit, with the numeric “7” and a pigeon outlined in silverine blue trim, across the entire back. I have been lucky, which is why I chose the number “7” when I personalized this suit from an Asian-American woman in Bakersfield, Ca. The woman’s name was Stacy. She was tall with a bearded upper lip, or so it seemed, and legs long as mine. When asking her if she was a Winebunkle, she responded: “Not so. But my dad knew one, a Salvadore Winebunkle born of Spanish heritage.” Salvador is my 3rd uncle, a successful checkers champion.

I moved to the Central Coast in 2009. I heard there was a chance at making real clay pigeon art and the right kind of artistic cutting edge circuit of citizenry, to foster such a thing.  Boy, was I correct. Since I have become one of the most talked about clay pigeon artists in and around the states, and because of my life of leisure as a seemingly wayfarer artist, I have “plenty” of time on my hands. Because of this abundance of time, I have been to numerous affairs involving the Cal Poly men’s basketball team, and until most recently, have  always been thoroughly impressed.

Why the sudden hint of angst in the 3rd paragraph above? Because I’m pissed and you should be also! Joe Callero and the basketball team have set me up for disaster. Since I am an artist, one moved almost instantaneously by elements in and around me, I become either bellicose with joy or black with rage in an instant. Some would say that sounds a bit bipolar, to which I reply: “I know Joy and Rage like one would twin brothers. They are equally accountable to one another.” Just a side note: I once lit a cherry bomb in my teacher’s shoe.

Beating UCLA in late-November made me dance naked down Higuera street. I bet most of my clay-pigeon art savings account on the likelihood of them making the Madness in March, but instead I’m now going mad with feverish insecurity, as my money is tied up with an Italian man named Big Frankie, in Las Vegas. But who could blame me?

After shocking the world against UCLA, Joe Callero’s team constructed three wins in a row against formidable Big West foes: Long Beach state, UC Riverside and UC Irvine. That’s comparable to out-singing circa mid-90s Meatloaf.  So I did like any fool would do and put all my eggs in one basket believing the Mustang Men were better then they really are.

Three conference losses in a row, one to UC Davis and another to rebuilding UCSB, puts things back into perspective. This team truly is a middle of the pack Big West team. They live and die by the three, like I do clay pigeons. Their recent slide and constant lineup-shuffling makes me wonder where this team is headed.

Joe Callero, your team has broken my heart. You’ve plucked my heart strings and made it difficult for me to create and paint clay pigeons the way that I used to. I used to have such a flare for broad brush strokes on slender tips. Now, I’m lamenting my art and my way of life. For three years I have rooted behind the Cal Poly bench singing songs with the alma mater, eating 7-11 style nachos and dreaming of a day I would meet you, Joe Callero.

But now? Now what Joe? We have nothing left. You don’t get to meet me and my fanny pack, until you win my heart again with another surprising win. If you don’t, I think I’ll finally make that move to Mexico to live amongst the monarchs.  

Sincerely,

Harry Winebunkle, esq.

P.S: As I wrote this my iguana Frankenstein birthed two babies. Metaphor?

Harry has issues…