Paul Malkowski | 1980 - 2005
His name was Paul Malkowski. Known to this community as Pavel over the last six years, Paul passed away on April 19th at his parents’ home in Connecticut. He was 25 years old.
Paul introduced himself in 1999 to the internet community that had formed on Michael Moore’s message board. His input was filled with satire and eloquent diatribes about political hypocrisies, absurdities, youth and pop-culture. A self-effacing irony lurked behind all of his over-the-top sermons. I liked Paul instantly.
I gave him a call while on business in Orlando in October of 2001. A coworker and I took a drive out to New College in Sarasota to meet this kid “Pavel” and see what was behind the persona. When I entered his campus and knocked on the door to his dorm, I expected to be greeted by a pasty, gothic know-it-all. Instead, Paul was handsome but unsure of himself, laughed easy, and was polite and considerate of the people around him. He said he expected me to be dressed like a dirtbag with long hair and a beer gut. I never did figure out why he thought that.
Walking around the campus and making fun of its silly, pretentious architecture, I sipped a shitty cappuccino and Paul filled me in on the details of New College’s brief history of molding and shaping impressionable idiot liberal kids. Liberal because they came from rich families and resented mommy and daddy’s wealth. They were afforded the luxury of their pseudo-philanthropic academic endeavors by none other than the cash from the parents they resented. Paul couldn't have agreed more and so expressed self-loathing. His father is first-generation Polish Catholic. I got the impression that he's demanding and difficult, always reminding Paul of the opportunities he was given thanks to Daddy's hard work and sacrifice.
During a series of heated and competitive games of ping-pong, Paul talked about returning to Connecticut after graduation. His grimace was palpable from a distance. So it was time to find out what South Florida had to offer. We drove out to Ybor City, at that time an area known for being a possible location of Al-Qaeda operatives. Of course we all laughed like hell about that. So we hopped into a rented Volvo convertible and off we went. Paul knew precisely fuck all about where we were going. 
I’ll never forget his frightened expression when our rental car’s "Neverlost™" navigation system took us down an alley in a seedy neighborhood near Tampa. Being half-ignorant and half-unafraid, I pulled in to a fast food fried chicken joint to ask for directions. I’ll admit the reaction I got from the locals inside was worthy of a full sitcom. Incredulity met with mocking glares, but I got the info I needed and we were safely back on our way to Ybor.
We spent the first hour at Gameworks so I could satisfy my curiosity about the Sega & Microsoft funded project. Well, surprise surprise, having drinks at an enormous arcade filled with overgrown boys while scantily clad corn-fed white girls serve drinks is just about as unexciting as it sounds. Some friends of Paul's got in touch with him, so we quickly changed venues and ended up, ironically, at a club celebrating Goth Night.
Home sweet home. Such a great time was had, our group was there until last call. Paul’s people made perfect company for a night of drinks in an unfamiliar setting. I let a stranger drive us back to Sarasota, risking my life or at the very least, my credit rating. I passed out on the floor of Paul’s dorm room and woke up questioning my sanity as I shook loose the hangover cobwebs and tried to ignore the pain from a severe crick in my neck. Seeing my coworker cramped up like a folded lawnchair on a loveseat made me chuckle and forget my own misery.
The next day, my buddy and I drove out for a return leg to Sarasota. After grabbing Paul, we all ate dinner at a Japanese restaurant called JoTo. Paul ended up with the shits afterward, disappearing frequently to empty his saucy colon. Fuck. I laugh just writing about it. Throughout the campus, as we walked from dorm to dorm, drugs, drugs, and more drugs were on the menu. Ultimately, hidden in the pale-lit corridors was the recipe for what eventually would take Paul’s life.
Over the last few years, we’d go in and out of one another’s lives, but so long as we both had an internet connection, we stuck together. We shared thoughts and feelings on film, music, people, relationships, love, hate, and everything in between. Total reciprocity. Paul was often the first person I’d seek out when I had something on my mind or wanted to share a story or idea. We exchanged what we were working on; I’d send him my short films and he’d send me his writing. Within the next year, we were to co-author a screenplay. It would have been fucking great. Now I’m only left to wonder.
That night in Ybor City would regularly become the topic of conversation and Paul would always say it was one of the highlights from his young life. I couldn’t agree more. I loved Paul like a brother and proudly consider him an eternal friend. Inspired by Gonzo to achieve greatness with a pen and an entertaining but unique perspective, to me it was inevitable that he’d eventually find an audience that even he could respect.
And they’d love what he had to say.
"Everything I know about life I learned accidentally while trying to escape it. I consider everything in life to be a gift. Generally the kind that some grandmother you don't even know worked really hard to knit, but it's in the wrong size and you can't even return it so you set it on fire and use the ashes to fertilize the sweetly blooming garden of your discontent." - Paul Malkowski
