Heaven of Las Vegas

Dear friends and lovers,

What a rambunctious time these couple of weeks have been. The morning after I last wrote you my world fell to pieces. I was attempting to extricate myself from Betsy's room after a night of sensuous kanoodling when she asked me if i loved her.

"Of course I do Betsy," I demurely replied as I scrounged about her room for my clothes, hoping to get back to my room before the morning bed check. "I love you like the moon loves the night."

I have replayed this sentence in my head about five billion times since that faithful morning, because sadly, this was not the answer my beloved was looking for. In fact it only proved to her that I would at some point prove to be as horrible a man as many others she had experienced, for you see--as she pointed out to me--the moon occasionally appears during the morning or very late evening when it is not fully night. She felt that by my saying this I was just stating that I would be unable to remain faithful to her.

Needless to say that was not--and is not--how I felt, but it was enough for her and before kicking me out of her room she informed me that our relationship, the one I had come to cherish so much, was done. As a man of the Cuban persuasion might say, we were finito.

I took the news as bad as you might expect. Within the hour I had cryed my heart out, packed up my T.S. Elliot collection and some clothes into a rucksack, and had hit the road. I have spent portions of these last couple of weeks hitching my way through Barstow, Reno, Eureka, and Eugene (and no Dartmouth I have not made stops in Nova Scotia, but maybe someday). Primarily I have been able to keep to myself in these cities, something which has been great.

As it stands now I do not know where I am headed and part of that excites me. Contrary to what Sergei wrote, I do not feel that I am headed back towards mother. My time at the center showed me that is not a stop on my path to Nirvana. Mother is helping me though. Just today I picked up her money order at one of this country's many convenient Western Union locations. She does not seem to be too worried about my wear abouts. Unlike father I feel she has faith in me. Faith that I can find my way. As for father I still have not found the appropriate time to let him know of where I am. I know he cares about me and I appreciate the help he so graciously bestowed upon me, but the time is not right yet. Maybe a month or two down the line when I do have more of a semblance of a plan of my own.

I plan to update you all on my life more over the next few months. I have wanted to write countless times these past couple of weeks, if only to let everyone know that I was safe, but I needed time to myself, time to figure things out. I was not--and to some extant still am not--ready to let anyone other than mother know where I am, but I am sure there will be clues here and there.

A good deal of the impetus for this blog was my own but sometime things get in the way of our intentions and stop them from coming to fruition. Nonetheless I apologize for this. I just have not been in the right mindset the two months that Bring Back the Hindenburg has been running, but I believe I am there now. Let us all hope that that belief is correct.

Regards,

AASXLIII

OMG WTF WTF!

This is important, for me at least. From this point on I am dropping all conjectures, posturing, and characteristics that make this blog this blog. This is pure humanity, or some closely applicable emotion, coming forth toward you and yours. 

In this world I fancy myself as a bit of a badass. As pertaining to most things I honestly don't give a fuck. I am forever unfazed. This has led to the loss of great loves and the ignorance of unspeakable beauties. Despite the bad this has exacerbated my individual streak while toughening me in such a process that can only be compared to that of old meat. In my life I have been heart broken, robbed at gun point, and attacked. All without so much as raising an eyebrow. However, I'll be looking like The Rock tonight. My eyebrows are in the stratosphere, I'm shaken to the bones. 

I don't relate so well to women. I'm frequently in love due to idealizing. I frankly worship the alien species, but without so much as a quark of understanding. With every girlfriend, hookup, and fling I have laughed in the face of dangers explicitly doled out to the females of our species. I have even, shamefully, been known to say "it's not rape, it's surprise sex". 

Maybe I'm a girl tonight. Maybe I'm a bit more human. 

I demurred from a sexual encounter after a roommate's stupid mistake.  Thoroughly disinterested, I ignored kisses. Thoroughly annoyed, I ignored cock grabs before sending this mutant on her merry way. Final tally 3 kisses, 4 gropes, and 3 cock grabs. I hated each and every gesture. I sent her on her way quickly. 

Soon thereafter I went to sleep feeling a little dirty but nonplussed nonetheless. Then came a knock on the door. In bed, I ignored it. Then came more knocks. Then came screams for my name. Screams, screams, screams, screams, screams, and screams. It sounded as if I was being born outside my own door. 

At this point, our house became vandalized, an apt target for spray paint. At this point, a fist went through a window. Then a fist went through another window. At this window, I was terrified in a completely new way. I never understood why doors were locked until this juncture. 

In such a circumstance, one becomes unsure, uncertain, and afraid of any and all aspects of humanity. This was not only a wake up call but a reminder of the ridiculous nature of humanity. I realize that when under the influence stupidity is subjected to much growth and exposure. Screaming outside my door like a ravenous hound I hear the very worst of humanity. 

Part of me wishes I was deaf. 

Ey Yo Chico An Autobiography of Joel

Let's be honest. Let's be frank. In short, I suggest expressing the things we couldn't normally express. In my humble opinion that is what honesty is. Half of the people I care about, presumably read this website. Unfortunately that number is either 4 or 3. In case you aren't a Math Major that means I care about 6 or 8 people. I love more than this amount, I respect much more than this amount, but I won't let many more than this amount to really know me. Of course, 2 of these 6/8 are my parents. I admit I am a sucker for things of such an ilk. If your placenta paved the way for my existence I will be forever indebted and will never shut the door on your love. In turn, you will have my respect.



Lately, I feel distracted. Unable to work, unwilling to play (unless drunk) I have become willing to drift in the doldrums of American College Society. This would be easy and in fact sensible if my cohorts were Samuel Beckett and Andre the Giant but that is not the case. Though outgoing, though charismatic I find myself distancing my current incarnation from my peers. This is not a bad thing per se. You will not know my doldrums. Seeing me on a daily basis you will undoubtedly consider me a force of nature and spontaneity like a Hurricane or early Steve Martin. If you are the sort to consider such things I undoubtedly respect you. If not you are either Mike Tyson or someone I hardly care for.

I have intentionally cut myself off.

Working is too much to expect. Doing something badly is hardly worth the effort instead I wait until the day where I won't do anything subparly. Subparly is a good word.

I look back to the past and wonder if I, in fact, peaked too soon.

At 17, I directed a feature film against all odds. I made my own luck, defied the odds, and found success. It premiered before 800 people at a dollar theatre at five dollars per ticket. This was a good feeling.

At 18, I directed and wrote a play while almost killing my father in the process. At this window in time I didn't care. It was worth it. In a small nowhere town I was somebody. I stood out. I was the rare person who did things and took risks. In retrospect it was all petty bullshit. I would have been better served surfing for pussy and doing the best Cocaine Detroit had to offer. It isn't that I didn't care. I cared for this project like gangbusters or Ghostbusters. It is the simple fact that I didn't understand what made projects of such an ilk important or integral. I wrote it. I directed it. BUT I didn't own it. I should have been digging graves.

At 19, I got arrested, wrote a novel (unpublished it is called Killing McKluckey), and skipped town to travel Europe. This was again just short of an honest endeavor. Not enough whiskey, not enough fun, too much walking. I was in the hospital after almost dying from internal bleeding and for the first time I understood what I ought to be. I ought not to give a fuck. At this juncture I vowed never to care again. Life was fine. To borrow from Benini, Life was beautiful.

At 20, I was getting there.
At 21, I was me.
Since then I am happy, vigorous, but generally bored. Nothing is worth the effort. All is bound to be misunderstood or stricken from the record books.

I haven't looked back since. I'm satisfied, happy, but afraid to move on from the current version. It'll happen soon I'm sure of it. Beacons call to me like I'm a freighter. I have to be cognizant of their existence or else I'm bound to be like Steve Francis. Although prone to shoot and steal and block, I don't want to live on in the shadows of being ignored. I'm not ready to be a role player. Dell Curry, I ain't. I'd rather give twenty seconds of brilliance than ten years of servitude.

This is all setting the stage for the right luscious brunette to save me from myself.

I CAN'T WAIT!!!!

P.S. Eric Clapton and I are solemates.


ALSO

We have a new feature here at Hindenburg. It is called the List.

Here is the List...

Alcoholic Beverages I wish were served at Christmas Time
1. A Gingerbread House filled with Beer, Wine, and Peach Schnapps.
2. Hot Cocoa, Gypsy Fingernails, and Nail Polish
3. Ouzo, Salt Lick, and a single lick of peppermint
4. Santa's beard and Vodka.

On a tangent... If Santa Clause were to exist there is no way that he wouldn't be Russian.







I tried to post pictures of other Seattle Supersoncis Power Forwards to further promote my unfulfilled potential. Shawn Kemp, Chris Wilcox, and Michael Cage are all harbingers of my existence. However, my understanding of html only lets me post one picture at a time. Vin Baker and his drinking problem best represent me. Thank God I am not Kevin Durant. I don't want to curse him.

Wasteful Wasteful Wasteful

Reading glamorous magazine featurettes usually only breeds disdain unless the subject is Steve Nash or Sean Penn. Reading a recent bit on Benecio del Toro aka Duke the Dog Faced Boy aka My Mother's Man Crush aka The man whose picture hung in my adolescent toilet, I have no doubts that you should spend Christmas with very own Jimmy Pterodactylus. Jimmy, the dream is yours and that is everything we strive for and more.

As for me I have been doing my best to place a foothold in this world while keeping Dartmouth in check and checking on Archibald. Last I hear he's in Nova Scotia because he wants to find something real. The thing we're all sort of dealing with here is that on these steps to adulthood it is easy to get lost. Things that should not be cared for are given a booming presence of mind. I suppose it is easy to get lost and wander in insecurities like Moses with waaaaaay more game. However, there are still friends out there who care enough to state the obvious and call you out.

Machine Gun Kelly: "You should really do more. By the time you graduate I want you to have a million dollars and give me one hundred thousand dollars".

With these simple self centered words a change has been struck. As a somewhat heavy drinker I am no stranger to epiphanies. In an inebriated state it is easy top forsee great change and earth shaking alterations to every aspect of one's life. This mitigates the sensation of finding a change that might somehow be applicable. While this epiphany came drunk it lingers into the cold sober morning. (I have been cold constantly for weeks). Eh, maybe I'll be a person I ought to be.

I feel like I've been banging for days, though my dick ain't been wet for months. How's that fit you Lil' Wayne

NOTES

Pride.
Pride should be reserved for parents, mentors, and point guards. I guess Religious Leadership is fine too as long as animal sacrifice is required. The word should not be bantied about like some beach ball but dolefully given to the most worthy. By my own definition how can I be proud of a peer? Saying "I appreciate and recognize your efforts, even though they slightly surprise me" is an awkward phrase.

LISTS (A New Feature)

Things I would say to Philip Seymour Hoffman if we ever met.
1. Thank you for bringing the term "sharted" into my vernacular. I was always stretching for words when describing said event to my girlfriend.
2. Remember in Red Dragon when you were sent burning down the street in a wheelchair? You're a really fun guy to watch being murdered.
3. Ever thought about playing an Albino? Cause, um, nevermind.
4. "Insert something about basketball"

in order to strengthen your aiming eye...

Things to do this holiday season:

--Get drunk and wander around Home Depot.

--Prove that you're the "cool uncle" by wearing a monocle, sleeping with a shotgun, drinking whiskey for breakfast, etc.

--Create a machine that presses leftover stuffing into bread shapes, so that the stuffing can be utilized as bread in a leftovers sandwich (this is my idea, fuckers, patent pending. PATENT MOTHERFUCKING PENDING, alright? Alright...).

--Goad stupid, inbred, pathetic townies you know from high-school into a deadly road-race.

--Grow long flowing beard and hair, don robe and sandals, and challenge mall Santa to a fistfight under the pretense of being Jesus. After you thoroughly trounce the fat bastard, root through his pockets and get a pretzel at the food court (don't forget to ask for a little plastic tub of nacho dipping cheese).

--Eggnog. Eggnog, eggnog, eggnog.

I Fucking Suck At Basketball

It's alright. Basketball has only been a lifelong love. I'll think of it like a divorcee thinks of the mistress that lead to everything going awry. I may be awful but at the very least I'm awful in an interesting way. I have the skills, the size, and the energy, but a brain like a tipped cow all urgent and unable to focus.

My NBA dreams are officially dead. Even Sergei schooled me.

I'm thinking bigger, like freak show big

Author's Note: Recently an acquaintance of mine made fun of my complete disregard for capitalization, grammar and spelling, and while I'd usually be all, "fuck you, yo," I kind of dig said acquaintance, so for at least a baby bit I'll be trying that whole writing correctly thing.

The best way to describe my life post academia would be one of fragmentation. I've found it really hard, as of these last six or so months, to focus on anything really. I start and read the first 50 pages of book after book (but never more), watch movies at 32x speed (because who has more than 8 minutes to spare), and listen to bits and pieces of songs when once I could listen to full albums for hours on end (this one I'll blame on the increasing influence of my iPod on my music listening habits). One would think with class and homework no longer taking up 20-40 hours of my week, I'd find it easier to focus on these means of cultural betterment, but apparently that isn't how shit works.

It's kind of a drag, but it seems like it's just the further realization (I know there's a much better word, for what I'm thinking, but it's not coming to mind right now, so if anyone knows it please feel free to offer it up in the comments section) of a lifelong problem of mine. Increasingly, espcecially since the end of my teenage years, I've found myself with the constant feeling of having bits and pieces of what I need, but the inability to bring it all together. It's like I'm Adrien Beltre pre 2004 (the year he finished second behind Bonds in MVP voting), I have the tools but for some reason I can't turn myself into the complete package.

Now to what this has to do with me being unable to read books, watch movies, or listen to music (because while I realize this makes complete sense in my head it might not make sense to all three of you who may be reading). See the thing is I always envisioned that once school ended I would finally have time to do all the stuff that I'd so desperately needed more time for when I was still in school. I find myself with the materials, the time, and most importantly the will to consume, I just can't do it. I don't what it is, but I'm hoping to figure it out soon and finally finish The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman.

I don't know though, maybe I'll never figure it out. Or maybe I'm just being a bitch, and without something else to steal time away from to culturally consume, I'm bored by it. They say you always want what you can't have, and maybe that's what this is a case of. Or maybe I realize that my time could be spent better--you know like maybe producing some shit of my own. You know, like the kind of shit that will change the world and shit. Yeah maybe that's what it is.

***

I find I play basketball best when I think of Clipse's song "Trill." For some reason when I'm playing that song in my head, basketball just seems to make sense. It also allowed for me to hear Minxie's panting on the court tonight, as he was coming from behind for a steal. That's right Clipse saved my life tonight(or at least saved me the shame of having been neutralized on the break by that fucker).

Also, I talked to Archibald's dad last night. If you were wondering why you haven't seen anything from him up here lately, there's a reason. Apparently Betsy broke poor Archibald's heart just hours after his last post, and he fled the rehabilitation clinic. Neither we here at Bring Back the Hindenburg or Archibald's family have heard of him, but in the hopes that he or someone who knows where he is reads this, please let us know, so that we can stop him before he falls back into his old life in Chesapeake Bay. There few things that boy needs less that his mother. Well maybe reruns of The King of Queens but I think that goes for all of us, not just Archibald. That's right fuck you Kevin James. Fuck you.

Gayest Soulmates Ever?

As a little child (I was a midget) growing up in the rural outskirts of the Urban Environ I had yet to catch the crazy fire of confidence that makes my current incarnation an arsonist's wet dream.

Wait, let me start over. This debate does not need my style or idlewild blog lyrics. This debate needs to be studied as stately and astutely like a History major's Thesis. There's a reason they don't allow PHD's to have personalities you know. Onward to suppress.

As a kid I was a picky eater. Onions, mushrooms, and anything with what experts define as "texture" was stricken from my diet in favor of Ramen Noodles, Hamburger Helper, and other food items with optional chewing. I lived in this world of dietary restrictions for most of my childhood, ignoring the great reserve of Arabic food my town held, and th Norwegian niche of whale Blubber. I have no defense for this. It was a closeted life.

Ummmmmmmm. I pause as I write this but I was destined to come out of the food closet or pantry. In recent years, trying new experiences and answering all dares have become pillars of great importance in my young, supple life. They sit high on my list of priorities next to meeting Lucy Pinder and directing Hollywood horror films shot in Canada.

In the interest of living a more fulfilling and interesting life I have not pursued big changes. I don't own a llama. I don't swing. I don't even look out of my left eye while driving. Instead I focus on facets, hoping that their exploration may lead to some sense of fulfillment,adventure, or theology. The end results of this strategy have been sleeping in other people's beds, not washing clothes from the thrift store (so that I can smell like someone else), and eating a new food every day.

The pursuit of a daily new food has led my to let Watermelon Barbeque Sauce mingle on my tongue and made plastic pears stunt my intestinal system. Regardless, this has been a new experience. It not only exacerbates my understanding of what food is good I can safely say that I understand that I know what food is. Food is something you eat for sustenance/style. This style eating can be called conspicuous consumption if you enjoy Economics jokes.

I entered this quest because food wasn't doing much and it was up to me to find a more palatable taste. I have continued this road but a force looms. No longer content to serve ub the Status Quo the fine folks at Nabisco Foods have joined me on this journey by producing new varieties of flavors for both Wheat Thins and Triscuit.

This change in flavor represents a shifting of the cracker into the 21st century. this much maligned snack food has sat on our most ignored aisles (next to Power Bars!!!) waiting to be eaten. They were good snacks, viable for a drunk endeavor or road trip but little else. No one was thinking about Wheat Thins, no one was talking about Triscuit. Unless you were a cracker connoisseur it is safe to assume that you didn't give a shit.

The evolution of flavors has gone from Chocolate to Vanilla to Other sweets. Salty snacks were given a share of Sodium and sent on their way but this wasn't enough for Nabisco. With the innovation of Fire Roasted Tomato and Basil, Rosemary and Olive Oil, and Parmesean Basil crackers have not only expanded their cultural boundaries but their efficacy as well. They are more distinct, flavorful, and important. These crackers are on the tip of our tongues both literally and figuratively. These indelibly important snack foods represent the changing world around us in a way that only Cracker's can.

I will still eat a new food every day, but it'll probably just be a new type of Wheat Thin or Triscuit before long. No longer content to be mere fodder for our snacking urges these snacks have risen up in the form of revolution. Who knows what they are capable of.

Dartmouth Minx does not write for slate. he plays darts at local taverns until his shoulders get sore, wherein he receives a full body massage from a Thai transvestite. You can read much of his work at Slate.com if you are willing to use your imagination and pretend that Dartmouth Minx wrote it.

check out that enormous pimp-quality fur coat on Henry VIII

"Dwayne Michael Carter, Jr. (born September 27, 1982 in New Orleans, Louisiana), better known by his stage name Lil Wayne, is an American rapper."

"Thomas Ruggles Pynchon, Jr. (born May 8, 1937) is an American writer based in New York City, noted for his dense and complex works of fiction."

Are they so different, these two Americans? One a yankee, the other a southern boy; born decades apart, both would rise up from the mundane American sea and bitch-slap the country hard on the mouth. O, these two legendary titans; these two gigantic juniors; these two commanding generals of self-armed clone armies which wield bazookas that discharge unstoppable torrents of wit, vigor, action, sex, comedy, violence, history, religion, futurism--long & tangled ropes of words (in the languages of Milton, of Voltaire, Richard Feinman) that snake about and bandy with meaning, disregard, bandy again, squeeze your sister's breasts, breath in your ear, take a bite of your sandwich, and then quietly wait while you give up the contents of your wallet and the days of your calendar.

Both Dedication 2 and The Crying of Lot 49 knocked me immediately on my ass and made me a devotee in a span of 2 days. It took me several months and more than one attempt to read Gravity's Rainbow; I had the same problem with The Carter II. But this pairing goes beyond mere superficial comparisons. In fact, fuck that. disregard what I wrote above (and don't, for the love of Christ, attempt to read any Pynchon while listening to Lil Wayne--especially don't mix the orgy scene on the riverboat in G.R. with "Did It Before"...I graduated Summa from Princeton while high on Oxycontin and holding a thermos full of Johnny Walker and A&W root-beer, and I even I would not attempt such a feat). Just know that there are no other writers like Pynchon; no other rappers like Weezy F. Baby (please say the baby). And, for that matter, Lil Wayne is also a writer, isn't he? And as for Thomas Pynchon, well, I don't know if he can rap, but he can certainly design (and, ostensibly, build) a multiple-warhead missile to launch at your mom's house (where you, no doubt, live in the basement "apartment") and kill you 46 ways from Sunday, motherfucker, so don't go doubting Pynchon's ultra-thuggitude.

When I first decided to write all of this out, I was going to pull out all of the stops--citations from their various works, analytical breakdowns, footnotes, and the rest. But the fact is, the very second that I started writing, I lost my shit. I couldn't fucking handle it. The shit's mad visceral, son; the internet can't hope to convey any real information or, dare I say, emotion about these men (though Thomas Pynchon may have invented the internet). It can only pay homage, act as a temporary shrine.

Fuck, I've worked myself into a frenzy here. I'm speechless. I need a drink. Tommy P. once said, "Why should things be easy to understand?" Weezy F. once said, "My chain Toucan Sam; that tropical colors you can't match that; Gotta be abstract."

They're goddamn right, goddamn it.

no! what would you do for a klondike bar?

sometimes when i have trouble sleeping i find myself lying in bed wondering what it would be like to feed from the teat of the damned. it is still a question that i still do not have an answer for, but i do know what it is like to eat thanksgiving dinner with a bunch of straight up ukranians (and despite my name i dont hail from ukraine), for that is what i spent my thanksgiving 2k5 doin.

i live in a ramshackle cinder block apartment complex seconds walking distance from la's famous meat packing district. to say the least, it is a less than desirable place to live, but despite this my
experience living here has been pretty alright. the main reason for this are my 13 house mates, all of who are ukranian hot dog salesmen. although we live in 2 cramped rooms we get along well, and they invited me to celebrate thanksgiving with them their way this year. what is their way you may ask? well apparently it consist of drinking lots of peach schnapps, manhattans and mojitos; eatin a shit loada tacos, snuggling, and traditional gaelic singing and dancing (of which they no nothing, so they just make it up as they go). the magical night was capped off by a series of fist fights and goat and lama riding. as you'd expect this all turned out to be quite wonderful.

but yeah with thanksgiving 2k7 drawing to a close, i thought it only appropriate that it be written of in the record books. the sexual record books.

We don't need a seahorse lamp to look orange.

Somedays it's hard to crawl out of bed. This would sound like depression from most people but not from me. I have such a cool bed that my mattress has it's own window! Do you know what that window is filled wit? I don't either but I like to imagine that my mattress window is brimming with beer and pussy. Needless to say I don't leave the bed much. I have a window, a Bebe gun, and an old Buick in the front lawn. I could never walk again and be happy with a set up like this.

When I leave the bed I like it to be for something good, usually a parade or quick round of fire golf (it's like regular golf while commiting arson). However there are the rare occasions when even old Minxie is called on to work. Don't worry too much folks, I only work holidays and I only work construction.

I stand on the fifth floor with my lunch box pretending to hammer while wondering how accurate my estimation of breasts are from up so high. I also like to watch my coworkers work.
Occasionally these guys will yell at me for not working but that's where I got 'em cornered. Unless you are into that sort of thing and run www.stevehjoseph.com (drinking non-alcoholic daquiris in your mother's basement) and take the method behind your mayhem seriously (I take my methods with speed balls). Anyhow. belief systems are at their truest best form when used for exploitation. Call me lazy? Hard workers are boring. Have I forgot to clip my fingernails? They are an erogenous zone. Have you caught me shoplifting? Meijers doesn't even deserve money anyway.

Seriously don't shop at meijer's.

Randomly adopting systems of beliefs might make me traverse some otherwise undiscovered road but the more I make these trips again. I guess my whims are all the same.

I'm gonna go ride a roller coaster while attempting to read Tolstoy. I bet Shawn Marion I could do this.

i can roll holy ghost from coast to coast

Not often do I find myself so close to possible death. Well, alright, alright, fairly often I find myself staring steelily into the mug of death. Less often, however, does death spit bits of fried chicken on me.

During a cramped and crowded train ride this evening, somewhere beneath 32nd street, I find myself the closest in proximity to this man: tall, fat--rotund, perhaps--dressed in an oversized camoflauge parka and mis-matched sweatpants and -shirt. Perched on his bejowled face are a pair of large black plastic rimmed glasses, which I later notice have no lenses in place. He munches contentedly on a drumstick of fried chicken.

Just after the doors close, he looks up. "Which one of you motherfuckers just shushed me?" he yells. Chicken meat, fat, and gristle spew out onto those of us nearby.

The rambling begins. "Fuck you, motherfuckers! Don't you be motherfuckin' shushin' me, I don't give a fuck, you motherfuckers, I don't give a motherfuck if you white or black. Fuck, my grandfather was a whitey, I don't care, shit. Motherfuckers, I got my Tek-9 in my fuckin' bag right here." He glances down at a navy blue duffel at his feet. I glance too. He fixes a googly eye on a snazzily-dressed young black man up the car; "You think I care if you a white son of a bitch?" Chicken bits continue to spray. "I've got something to show you motherfuckers!" he yells, turning back to once again address the entire car. "I'm fuckin' prepared, I'm from the old school..." He retrieves the bag which, ostensibly, contains a Tek-9 firearm. He holds it aloft and points a finger at its dangling weight. "Fuckin' right."

All at once he plunges down the tightly packed car; "Excuse me, motherfucker; I'm gonna find who was shushin' me--when I push you and say 'Excuse me,' that means fuckin' move!" He wades through the crowd and down toward the next set of doors, where he sets himself upon several different people as possible shushers. The navy duffe is left alone. No one touches it; I cast it furtive glances.

He comes back to his original post. At this point, I'm beginning to sweat just a tiny bit in my tweed coat. Yes, I'm enjoying this as a lark on some level, but there's the lingering possibility of that pistol. The man plants his feet wide, hitches up his sweatpants toward his belly fat, and stares directly past the back of my head. "Yeah, motherfuckers, yes." He leans down and unzips his duffel, then stands back up to stare again at the young black fellow up the car from me. His eyes narrow. The train pulls in at the next stop, he tosses the gnawed and denuded bone to the train's floor, and steps lightly out onto the platform.

Also, earlier in the day, I encountered a man in a full camoflauge jumpsuit, with antennae fashioned from glowsticks. He lamented the fact that he, a being from another galaxy, was marooned here after a planned 19-year mission to study humanity went awry after his spacecraft broke. He admonished us to contribute "human earth currency" to its repair, and then said he would attempt to communicate with us in his native language. He lifted a baritone sax and played a sprawling free-jazz squonk indebted to Ayler and late Coltrane. I would have given him some money, but I didn't have any.

bombay sapphire, the mana of the un-gods (aka denziens of hell)

"mary jane...i wanna fuck you."

those were the magical words uttered to me by jimmy on a mumbai balcony on cinco de mayo 2k5. wed met just a few months earlier and things had going on long swingingly. wed terrorized much of the city, literally painting shit red whenever we were given the chance. wed even occasionally taken our show on the road when we could find a sean john sportin hobo (who because of a fucked up left foot and his proliferation for wearing stolen timberlands couldnt walk straight) to accompany us to such far off cities like nashik and kolhapur.

surprisingly these words didnt change things between us, in part because my name isnt mary jane and also because jimmy didn't want to fuck me (also had we fucked it wouldve been bestiality, and despite what dartmouth might go on to say in the coming weeks, i aint pinch hitting for no one). instead we laughed, high fived one another, and went back inside to watched bootlegged x-files dvds with oregonians, crazy chicks from iladelphia, and a kid who was obsessed with using jimmy's mom's tried and true family recipe to make blueberry muffins before the apocalypse arrived at 5 am that morning.

i share this story now, because it is jimmy's birthday today, and that sentence he uttered to me on the balcony is one of my most cherished moments of our friendship. that's right good ol dr dinosaur is adding another ringlet to his insides taunting us all to catch up as fast as we can. though he might be an archaeologist lets hear it for doctor dinosaur and all he has come to mean.

big ups to you dr. eat a butter sandwich and dream about rory, youve reached an age where you can get away with it.

President Boog3r!!!

Movements begin with irritability and then revolutionaries. These revos scour the tide with their angst bringing about changes and perhaps getting Japanese designed tattoos for their handiwork. Without these revolutionaries we would be British/French/Native American and the Hurricanes would still be the Whalers.

The revolutionaries are good but they need an audience. Those cold, stoic folks who calmly watch and slowly nod in approve. Teguh Tiaz you are our audience. You are so stoic that you speak Italian without smiling. You wear baseball hats without having any knowledge of what ios on the front. You bring the tao into the 21st century, but only after getting it tricked out at West Coast Customs without the aid of one actor/rapper/Sestinist Xzibit.

Born with a face like mine the only place for approval is Indonesia. It is nice to know that there is love out there somewhere. If my government would only give me a passport I would come viosit in a heartbeat. I don't know what we'd do buyt it would surely involve a lot of frolicking, but not the gay kind. I save the gay kind of frolicking for Flag Day as the holiday was conjured up when Thomas Jefferson gave Ben Franklin "good luck hand job" before the annual cornhole tournament.

Someday we'll make Zombie movies together. I hate Zombie movies but I feel like if anyone could get me to love them it's you.

we've only just begun...(white lace & promises)

When I was a small child, growing up in the reedy thickets of Indiana, I had my share of dreams. Oh, they were small dreams, sure, but dreams none the less. I hoped to one to one day own a cow, and perhaps somehow use this cow-ownership as leverage to launch and oversee a thriving cheese factory. How sensible, you may say, how mid-western and blase. Those accusations may be true, but those were my dreams; unfortunately, I held them deep within the fortress of my heart, never to let them out. Which is why I now live as I do: a well-to-do archaeologist in a town of upturned noses, instead of the jolly, overalls wearing proprietor of a thrumming cheese concern.

Teguh Tiaz has lived differently than I. Though I know very little about this bastion of glittery hope amid the gray, oatmealy tumult of daily life, I am secure that young Teguh looses his dreams from his heart as stallions from the racing gate. Teguh has never been booted from an Ivy League crew team for assaulting an opposing team with an oar; if he has had any contact with this noble sport, surely he has rowed proud and strong, leading his team to victory. And no doubt Mr. Tiaz' father never tackled him at his own high-school graduation before sitting atop him, demanding his only begotten son remove "his" Pierre Cardin loafers, "goddamnit". And I would be highly suprised if--well, excuse me, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Here's to you, Teguh Tiaz, for believing. It is for you, and others like you, that we are resurrecting the Hindenburg. Tonight, in your honor, I will pour and then drink several glasses of Campari, neat.

lets hear it for the mayor of awesometown

i know what it feels like to be punched, i know what amazing creme brulee tastes like, and i know how it feels to watch robert horry knock down and back breaking three when hes still on your team. but i do not know what it feels like to be awesome as our friend teguh tiaz.

while you may not be familiar with tiaz, we at bring back the hindenburg have come to know his as our number one fan. it is teguh (and people of his ilk) that we espouse about all things hindenburgian for. sure we may not know that much about him, but we know what matters most about him. he is from indonesia, he digs technology, and most importantly he is awesome.

without the venerable teguh tiaz this blog would not exist, and all of us (includin most of you im guessin) would be all the worse off because of it. so praise him from the top of the nearest mountain, for he is a truely great man. the kind of man you dedicate revolutions to.

Dracula Teeth Brushing!!!

We here at the Hindenburg don't want you to self-actualize. We don't want to improve your life, we put no interest in your dietary habits, and don't give a shit about those Gnome Whittlings you keep sending us. All we want from you is to send us satchels of money and to tell us where Chris Sabo is hiding. We've got his Rookie of the Year Trophy on our mantle and want him to come pick this shit up. 

I don't have a lover but I still managed to have breakfast in bed. I don't have a lover so breakfast in bed equates to a cold Pop Tart.  Like the Bermuda Triangle and Bon Bons, Pop Tarts were once a very big part of my existence. I'd eat them while reading scab papers at the breakfast table. I thought this would be a darling anecdote to include but our demographic probably supports the strikers in any and all scenario. Your opinion of me aside, you can't debate the fact that I was half asleep, holding a Pop Tart to begin the day. You can judge almost anything, but not this. It was a "Welcome Back" moment, the first I've had in some time. 

Pop Tarts have dwindled from my life like appointments to the dentist. I think about them, I  harbor some sense of appreciation, but it just isn't worth the effort. (Note: it's hard to type with all these cavities). These problems have their roots though. I got caught stealing from the Dentist. I also vomited on a road trip with a belly full of Pop Tarts and my mom said "I Guess Pop Tarts are ruined forever." Holding a cold Pop Tart in my hand in my half asleep state I wondered for a bit why I didn't eat Pop Tarts anymore, I knew they could never be ruined no matter how many I threw up. If anything Pop Tarts are one of the few foods meant to be vomited. With their jagged edges, splinters of frosting, and propensity to turn into paper mache. It is a wonder that no rural South American Tribes employ this process as a rite of manhood. I can't wait until I have sons and these sons have Bar Mitzvahs (I intend to marry an Albino Jewess). It'll take months to clean the carpets (I intend on never wearing socks in my home again). 

I didn't need coffee to wake up this morning. The Cinnamon  danced on the cusp of my nostril and it was purely romantic. 

The first bite was taken and all I could taste was blood. Now I recall the reasons for dumping my favorite flat snack. After a love affair with the famed toaster pastry I began to taste blood with each and every bite of each and every flavor. This isn't to say that I don't enjoy Pop Tarts, because I do. Tasting blood in a thin pastry sheet is a surprise best left for the midnight hours. Stumbling down the street you might and up shooting bits of tart out your mouth, into traffic, and into the thing of legend. Like I said, nothing can be immortal in the morning hours so why not wait to appreciate it correctly. It's like wine that way. 

I don't know what General Mills has up in the waters of Battle Creek (Cereal City) but I have reason to believe that they have some Genocide going on up there. I have seen The Road to Welleville and see no reason to doubt any atrocities. When I taste a tinge of iron and a bit of flesh I don't feel disgust. I simply see it as a drastic change in the dynamic of breakfast treats. This should, by all accounts, be disturbing. It isn't. 

Oddly enough, the blood helps the strawberry variety. 

Let's Go To The Beach

Today seemed to be a cursed one on any and all fronts. Try as I might I just couldn't get the mail to come. 'Round these parts mailmen come and go like little whimsies. We get a new mailman once a week and I can never figure out what time is the best time to stagger out of bed and out to the mailbox in my underwear. When something reliable as the mail goes unreliable you know it's not one for the ages. I'll admit it took 2 White Russians to get out of bed, pick up my finest ivory handled comb, and go do whatever it is I do. 

One of the things I do is work on my fame in the Philippines. Thank you for the kindness of your comment Raouual, we look forward to future comments from you. 

Another thing I do is people watch. 

Seeing strangers cavort about in their everyday activities I cannot help but judge, turning average into idiocy, but by the same token I cannot help but give them the benefit of the doubt. In the glimpse of rudimentary opinion one can seem both fruitless, fruitful, and fruity. People who I barely know assume more importance than great friends if only because they still  have their luster. I am free to make up whatever history I want. 

In my imagination: Clarence, 36, goes home and methodically does puzzles. Has sex 4.5 times a week. Restores exotic cars. 

In our reality and let'[s not debate the nature of this term for too long): Clarence, 36, loves Desperate Housewives. 

There is something beautiful to this pattern of living assumptions. There are however downfalls. Cool kids you are supposed to be cool kids. You are supposed to, nay obligated, to live a life of Cocaine, body painting, and general in flux activities. Move closer to these cool kids and they are just like you and me except they have no grasp on baseball and spend too much time thinking about sneakers. Cool kids, at the very least be interesting to imagine. 

This is why I'd like to marry a stranger. I won't already know where the scars are. 

fuck giraffes, all uppity with their long necks and their fancy toys

In my scant days as a Hindenburger, I have tackled such diverse topics as Richard Dreyfuss, ghost dinosaurs, and international politics vis-a-vis whiskey drinking. However, recently I have become obsessed with a new topic: Adulthood.

In the time since my (admittedly less-than-graceful) departure from Princeton, I have, quite suddenly, grown up. I find myself a less-goofy Tom Hanks, suddenly Big, if you will indulge me. Working 9-5 at my own version of a toy company (it involves virtually no transforming robots or giant-keyboard dancing), I find myself staring deeply into the gloaming of adult responsibility. Suddenly it is no longer acceptable to show up to every occasion hungover and reeking of whiskey sours; apparently getting drunk on borrowed gin and falling asleep in a rolling suitcase is not fitting of a grown man. Yes, dear friends, this Puritanical world of water bills and grocery shopping (just one bottle of wine at dinner, young man--nay, a half!) is a disorienting place, and the urge to cry, to stay in bed, or enroll in graduate school can be strong, and tempting.

Fret thee not, however! There is an oasis in this professionally-attired desert. There are office parties to attend and have too much to drink at! There is classic workplace gossip; nothing says fun like talking shit about fellow employees when you should be working! And don't forget fucking around on the internetz. Yes, friends, there is hope. At first, you feel daunted, cowed, by your newfound adulthood. You stand stiff, set your alarm to give ample time to prepare and then leave for work, become concerned with "getting enough sleep" and fulfilling your responsibilities at work. After a bit of time passes, however, you're showing up to work with that good ol' vodka cologne not-so-delicately applied, lips still stained a faint Sparks orange, and you excuse yourself to vomit in the employee restroom.

No one grows up anymore, anyway.

good things to pour whiskey into

Dr. Pepper:

Kittehs:

Eagles:

Kofi Annan:

The Reverberations of Positive Thinking

Salutations dear readers,

Before getting into specifics I must apologize for my lack of presence here these last few weeks. Rehab has been progressing splendidly. I have managed to reach all my goals so far and father checks in every Sunday for brunch and a quick game of croquet.

Along with rehab I have also been busy falling in love. The object of my affection is a wonderful young twenty-something named Betsy. She is fetching in all the ways one could be, and unlike my past romantic interest, Claire, you would be quite wrong in calling her a prude.

Now I must cut this short, for my lovely Betsy is calling to me from her room next door. Yes, like Claire she lives next door, except to the right of my room rather than the left. It appears she fancies a swim, so we must be off.

I hope all is well with all of you and your loved ones, and that each and everyone of you are accomplishing your dreams on a daily basis.

-AASXLIII

mink coats are for winners...and congressional representatives

today i watched a man get punched over a dvd copy of the sixth season of the simpsons. it was one of the most fierce things i have ever seen, and it was perputrated by a couple in their late teens/early twenties.

while i felt a tinge of remorse for the man whose face was most definitely aching, i also found myself wondering about the chaos that was obvs running through the heads of those kids. there was a time in the not too distant path, when i may have been just like them. not saying that i would walk around punching middle aged men who were just trying to buy episodes of a tv show they loved so dearly in their college years (back when they were actually young! and still felt like they belonged at concerts), but there was a time when i was very--i dont know how to phrase it exactly--restless.

from the time i was 16 until about half way through my 19th year of life, everything i saw around me sucked. it not that i was living a bad life (in fact things were pretty neat now that i think about it) it just that everything seemed stupid, retarded, and lacked any sense of realness (in the keepin it real sense of the word). i lived in a world full of fakeness and i didnt need a plaid hunters cap to notice it (not saying that thats what he needed, but you know what i mean? yeh?). i guess this is a feeling most people experience at some point during their lives, adolescents in particular, the thing was i just wanted to destroy everything, fuck it all up and start all over again. it was a naive and ill thought out way of thinking, but what can i say. i was young and i romanticized pretty much everything. well, everything that was badass at least.

obvs shit eventually changed in my head, eventually i came to grips with the idea that destruction was not the ends to my mean, but instead lameness. not that this realization has stopped me from being punched time after time after time, but i now walk around and appreciate the things that litter my life rather than question their street cred. its really a lot more constructive.

now instead of wanting to put my fist through everything i see, i just want to pack everything i own into a bright red back pack, hop on my bike, and ride through the japanese country side learning everything i can about life. i don't think about this all the time, just a few minutes a week.

Disgustingly Beautiful and not a Maggot Magpie

Note: I don't use text book definitions. I employ instead the vernacular of dock side workers in various regions of Maryland.

The cold fact is that nothing amazing has ever happened. Every instant of amazement merely poses. It is coincidence, performance, and luck. Things fit into their pegs and except for the most EXTREME CONDITIONS, they stay in their place. Even when something occurs to spark notions of inspiration and wonderful, for the most part, it has it's place within the unwritten rules that govern the way things. For instance: A tree grows for fifty years in a pattern looking just like the Eiffel Tower. This is not amazing. Trees have a propensity a grow and existence has a propensity to explore it's bounds. It is still cool as hell but not quite amazing. For instance: A tree grows for fifty years and starts spitting out age old operettas. That is amazing, if solely because it is otherwise unfathomable.

If the Sixth Sense were a documentary, the subject would be the most extraordinary event in the history of the universe.

With things prone to reason there is a limited impossibility for changes to occur merely for the purpose of changing. The Dead don't rise and people don't turn invisible. Nothing is magical. Nothing exists for the sole purpose to create fun or provide euphoria. There is nothing on the human body not associated with movement, feeling, or other various biologic systems.

Not with jenkem. Jenkem is a street drug developed from the fermentation of various human feces in a soda bottle topped with a balloon for several hours or days. The gas from the feces accumulates into the balloon. The gases are then huffed and you get high, real high apparently.

I don't about you but I find this to be a beautiful idea.

With jenkem the world is stretching out the tendrils of it's long cool fingers to provide an unexpected lift. It involves the huffing of feces and a n advanced sense of bliss. How wonderful it could be that something as useless as feces could be harnessed for a purpose, albeit a ridiculous one. With feces taking on such a property, the reason for no reason at all is validated, and the existence of God can be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt.

The process this takes on exists for you and I to smile. Someone out there wants us to.

Oh wait. No. Jenkem is fake. Nothing will ever exist for the reason of for no reason at all. At least there's culture. I'll see you at the screening for Mr. Magorium's Magical Emporium I 'll be the one crying.

sweater vest or cardigan, do it like you mean it

I just finished watching Mr. Holland's Opus, and there are a slew of thoughts racing through my brain. Among the most pertinent:

--How did Mr. Holland manage to spend almost 40 years composing his "American Symphony" only to have it emerge as a hot 90s movie jam; but not just any movie jam...the theme to his own movie!!! Fuck you, Dave Eggars, Richard Dreyfuss is on some real meta shit.

--Mr. Holland's tragically deaf son Cole somehow, between 1980 and 1995, grew into a ponytail-rocking, khaki-vest-and-shorts-wearing, fannypack-flossing Gunter. I bet he drove the whole way to the climactic scene with deep house bumping in the car while out of his mind on ketamine, the odometer needle pushing 95.

--Someone explain to me why Mr. Holland didn't peace out to New York in the mid-70s with that "hot" musical chick. Who could ask for anything more indeed, Mr. Holland. Fuckin' A, if he had gone to New York with her, he could have hung out all creepy-like in Central Park West until he "accidentally" met John Lennon. He could have bought lil' Sean an ice-cream cone, and climbed a tree together. Maybe John would have invited Mr. Holland up to his apartment in The Dakota, and they could've smoked pot and talked about Ray Charles. Yoko probs would have been pissed, but what else is new? For fuck's sake, who wrote this movie? I see a totally different ending--Mr. Holland leaves his wife and child to get rowdy with a girl 20 years his junior in the wild, untamed party of NYC circa '76, develops an unlikely bond with John & Yoko, has a falling out with them, and is ultimately the one to drunkenly suggest to Mark David Chapman that he go and shoot Lennon. This would give the "Opus" referred to in the film's title an entirely different meaning: instead of referring to the dozens and dozens of lives Holland touched and changed throughout his career, it would be a reference to his direct role in the death of one the greatest musicians in history. That kind of irony really trumps the "oh shit, I'm a music teacher but my son was born deaf" from earlier in the film.

--I know that dopey bass-drum kid gets killed in 'Nam, and that's sad, because he's goofy and charming. But given that Mr. Holland's career encompassed the entirety of the conflict in Vietnam, isn't it odd that Mr. Holland mourns only the death of this one student? Surely there were others. You're a cold-blooded gangsta, Mr. Holland.

TARANTULAS!!!

ARE EVERYWHERE!

Would a life without spiders be worth living? They scare some? They inspire others. They are unpleasant to kiss. They have small prickly, hairs. They do not have ego. Spiders, though creepy, sre innately altruistic. A spider once bought me lunch.

There are many details that comprise the day and day monotony. One is Spiders. One is speed (the pace not the drug). The other is rules. There ain't no need for nothing so fancy. Let's put glitter pants and go a 'prancing. I'm not Mickey Avalon but I WILL drink warm Coors Light.

Spiders have a unique sense of self about them. It is debatable as to whether or not they have feelings. However, this debate is stupid. Spiders are integral, vital, and borderline essential. This is how I view the ABA from days past.

I got the booze in my system.

Somebody gonna be my victim.

I dare you to give me a pertinent response to my bullshit. Read the last like 90 posts. Iam like a tarantula. You will see me but won;t notice my mission. I owned a tarantula for like 7 months and the only mission I ascribed from this octo-sapien was that he enjoyed hiding.

I'm not ready to hide. I'm ready to stand tall and fight for any issue. HOWEVER. The only REAl issue is that they won't open up the old salt mines for tours. If you don't know where salt comes from than you probably don't know anything. By such a standard you probably can'r associate with me. Salt is important. The origins of condiments are important. If they aren't, than nothing is. Nothing is, except Rik Smits. The Dunking Dutchman? I MUST! I MIST!!!

pita bread makes horrible comfort food

as you should young soviet. as you should. now just work on not being an asshole and you might be onto something. but probably not.

efforts are often wasted because of humanity's many weakness, and i will have faith in minxie only after he has proven to me that i should have faith in him. will that day ever come, that is for me, danica patrick, and greg st. pierre to know. although who knows if he'll ever become aware of the fact while crookedly staggering through the streets of downtown prague with a hitch in his giddy up.

groveling
intrawebs
dandelions
dithering
yesterday

undertow
patriarch

and now my attention is needed elsewhere. and i need to sleep.

Sorrow Tinged

I'll admit it. You got me. i'm faking it. I don;'t love Machoopa and I'm not this haphazardly sad, I'll admit that I am incompetent of the unforgivable sins of incompetence, idiocy, and other shit ass fuck hole sins. I'm too busy living for such wastelands. 

Some folks tell me I'm sad. I tell them life's hard without a vested interest. They don;t understand. Though I drooled until I was 21 I still feel like a child prodigy. My past keeps following me and mucking up my way. 

I work at Social Sciences Library. My name is Rita. For lunch I eat the salt off my arms for sustenance. 

I don't believe in Randy Moss or postage stamp. I don;t believe that anything should try to be extraordinary. That is why Randy or stamos are extra-super -good. They don't strain to be relevant. They simply don't fit the mold. These are the same reasons people eat viatnemese food, because it conjures up notions of Warhol. The thing about the amazing is that it doesn't come forth from preparation, intellect, or SMARTS. The only source of such phenomenon is instinct. How do you convince some one that they are incredible within six days? Trust yourself, honky...  

Mom, I love you. you re the dog to my hurricane. If I was Jimmy Carter I qould build you a house without pity. The world is wowing me on every front and it is edging on an affront but from here on out I will embrace the fact that I am not here to be wower. I am simply here to watch the amazing happen. When are Durant and Melo facing off? I need something to believe in. My ideas are boring. The friendships are stagnant. I don't own a blender.  '

My attitude might be terrible but I love every moment. 

cyndi lauper and premonitions of death

whoa is me minxie, always resorting to stories about gunters when the going gets tough.

for all of you reading, yes minxie has gone through some tough times, some of which were spent lying on his death bed in the land of ______ chocolate. but havent we all layed on our own death beds from time to time. well maybe we havent (in my case at least) but still the hostility is as unwarranted as could be. what have minxie's friends done to him to make him feel the necessity to tear us down.

you know i know weve all agreed not to air company business (a pact minxie has ignored time after time) but when he started telling everyone about minxies problems, my shit was flipped. sure archibalds a fucked up kiddie kat but so was i and so was minxie im sure. i mean i dont know for sure, being open and being minxie are apparently too separate things.

this thing is starting to flail out of control so let me just say thing, minxie you are currently living through the time of your life, so instead of reminding us all about our inadequacies why dont you try to enjoy your life for once. fer realz yo, shitd do you some good.

SPIKEBOARD!!!

Wouldn't it be better if it was horrible? Think Michael Bay! Think Film School Students! Everything horrible and devastating is summed up and exacerbated by the next willing/waiting generation. The attitudes I see on a daily basis are terrible and sad. I imagine that these are the sort of attitudes that produced Nick Van Exel and the novel The Historian. I couldn't read that novel when dying. I watched NFL Europe but still couldn't read about Vampire Menstruation. 

Little known fact: I the author, was not always so positive but at one point in time I was on my death bed. I was mighty close to the great beyond REM sang so strongly about but I had a vision. I saw my ego, I saw all the negativity, but at that moment near death that I smiled. Nothing would ever get to me. On my deathbed, with massive internal bleeding I didn't fear, I didn't quake, I asked foreign speaking doctors about Dirk Nowitzki. There was no fear but on the cusp I agreed that the life I lived was worthwhile and worthy. 

The current version is even more worthwhile but without validation of even the most mundane of sorts. That is how it goes. I suppose. 

:Life is good. Life is boring, If I were a starving albino at the very least I'd have something to think about. 

I would rather be Chris Wilcox then go to class. My tags are amazing. 

I couldn't post them but here they are...

Re: The Great Debate

so im sleeping just minutes ago and i get a call from chuck telling me to avoid the blog for a few days. why i say? well lets just say dartmouth possibly about to take things a bit too far. he hung up right after, i think hed realized the mistake hed made. if he wanted me to avoid the blog his best bet wouldve been not telling me and hoping id be fall into one of my patented apathetic trances. thing is that shit aint going to happen? the reason, im aware of it, and minxie this shit aint dying, so go fuck yourself and your "girlfriend," *cough*cough* i mean your auntie margo, come down from tacoma. just because youre hanging out with a girl (or actually should i call your aunt that, are you still a girl when youre in your sixties, i sort of think not) doesnt mean your going out. so again, i repeat, go fuck yourself and stop being a scourge around these parts. youre like brian williams ii always trying to match up to me, chuck, arch, and dr. dino (id say curt too, but were still waiting to here back from him) and i got one thing to say to you just because youre a hindenburg (like williams ii is a williams) doesnt mean your THE brian williams.

take your juvenile airing of our laundry cool it. the thing is chuck was all hesitant about us inviting you aboard, but i was all about it. little did i know youd turn to be such a jeter, turning on your "friends" at the first possible chance.

and as for your bait? dockside demo? i dont even know what that is.

The Great Debate

Ok sit. Here we go. We've been a blog now but it's high time we became an experiment. I think it is time that Sergei and Dr. Dinosaur come out of the down low and have their great debate of fist versus hammer. This is the equivalent of Eva versus Teri but that won't happen til the year 2009 when no one watches TV anymore. HINT: They will always be busy injecting plasm. 

I don't need a girl friend. Or a girlfriend. I have plasma. Have you ever screwed plasma?!? It's like playing PF with Acie Law IV as your PG. In the rare case that you are Al Horford/Gay I recommend that you take to graffiti and eat all the salt water taffy and lie about it. 

 A GROUP OF FRIENDS RECENTLY FOUND A PIECE OF SHIT/ POUND OF HASHISH IN HIS VAN.  I was the person they came to, to test the relevance of this shitish. I didn;t try it. Even minxes have standards. 

My girlfriend> Your girlfriend. 

Her birthday was yesterday. 

We shared toes and discovered China. 

We ate the placenta and became impotent. 

We played "Pass The Peach". 

We also found a unicorn horn. 

And played the Arizona Cardinals. 

It was grEAT. We ATE!!!

Go to the dockside demo. Roy will get blown out anyway. 

death, this is your cousin sleep

in the not so distant past i had the sleep was not a necessity for me. for the first three years of my collegiate life i was able to live on an average of three to four hours of sleep night.

this remarkable super power was one that only seemed to intensify when i got to england during the spring of my junior year and learned that if i put my mind to it i could function of one to two hours. sure i was sick a lot of the time (although nothing compared to the previous fall, where my mom once found me sprawled out on the bathroom floor my undershirt sprinkled with blood and a big ol chunk of my lungs lying near my armpit., but i was never ever tired. this is a time where my life consisted of the following activities:

1. drinking newcastle
2. eating cornish pasties (and proposing to the beautiful bjorns who made them)
   
3. drinking lots of tesco value liquor
   

really all of these are activities that should have sapped me of any and all energy my body may have possessed or at least made me a fat retarded mess. instead i lost 30 pounds and felt more energized than i ever had in my life before. it was a weird course of events, but it was one that reminded me of my post human abilities.

anyway back to what i was initially writing about (i will celebrate times in the eastern racist chav-ridden bloc of england another time), when i got back from england i continued this way of living. id been able to get by on it for five months, so i saw no reason to change my ways, especially if i was enjoying myself. the things was that i sort of took it to a whole new levels. an exponentially new level. three and four days would go by without me sleeping. nights were spent sprinting back and forth between here and the outskirts of Los Angeles county and a jet propulsion laboratory. all the while i kept to my commitments (even if i was constantly an hour or two late, for reason completely unrelated to my sleeping habits).

by the end of the summer i was becoming more and more convinced that i was about to transcend being and becoming a human entity free of any basic needs. my life would be one that could be dedicated to nothing but reading pynchon, contemplating (and looking to hard for) the narratives of my favorite sports, and naked girlies. it was going to be amazing.

but alas shit rarely turns out as we expect it and shortly after the summer to end all summers i found myself in desperate need of some rest. every morning i was exhausted, my body aching as i ever so slowly swung my legs off of my bed and walked across my charmingly gray and dilapidated crack house towards the decrepit closet we used as our bathroom. all in all it sucked. i was sleeping more than ever before (first four to five hours, then six, and finally between eight and nine hours a night) but it wasnt doin shit. i was tired as fuck and things werent going any better.

this leads me to this morning and the initial impetus for this scrawling. this morning i woke up at the crack of 8am, extricated myself from bed, and realized that although i had work i felt...well rested. i felt alright. good even. my body was not the normal creaking jalopy i was used to, but a much improved and fuel efficient asian economy vehicle. and really is there much more that you can ask for besides that?

this also makes me wonder what super powers im about to get back.

Jurassic Park!!

As Sergei so illustriously pointed out, today is indeed a day of celebration, a day to lift our respective glasses to the sky, give a furious whoop of unbridled joy and badassedness, to then lower said glasses and perhaps pour a bit out of them before emptying them of their delicious, life-sustaining contents.

It also a day just like every day--a day to sit down with a tuna-melt and a Mountain Dew, and think about how Jurassic Park fucking ruled. Remember the part where that one guy who plays Muldoon thinks he's hunting the raptors, only to find that they are actually HUNTING HIM! Clever girl! Or do you recall that cute little animated double helix that narrates the story of Jurassic Park's god-defying dinosaur experiments? In your face, God! Chalk one up for little round old guys who have enough money to buy Jeff Goldblum outright.

Of course, if you watch Jurassic Park today, all of the dinosaurs look like ghost-dinosaurs, since the special effects didn't age very well. But, in the end, that sort of makes it even scarier. I mean, fucking GHOST DINOSAURS? Goodnight and good luck (and I ain't talkin' 'bout George Clooney)!

***

And, for the record, I resent being put in the same category as a certain rehabbing junkie. Everything in moderation, Minxie; I am of the opinion that a little speedball every once in a while never hurt anyone. This is America, after all, a country veritably founded on potentially lethal cocktails of heroin and cocaine. That is all.

not even your special move will save you this time...oh wait, maybe thats a good thing

in every situation i find myself in, i have an immediate escape route. i walk into a room (or a situation or a relationship) and i guage my surrounding and come up with a plan of what to do when shit happens. when youre me shit happens a lot so you need to have a plan, a way out, someway to escape the vacuous state you find yourself in with your soul intact. this is something i havent told many people, in fact it might be something ive only told one other person (and its what made up bestest buddies forever) but now im telling you all. well all four of you at least.

i bring this up now because for the first time in my life i dont have an escape plan. i dont have one because for once i feel--how do you say---comfortable. or at least at ease. actually fuck all that. for once in my life i dont want the escape plan, for once in my life im ready to weather whatever shit i may encounter because for once things are good and i like them and i dont want them to change. this is a feeling i rarely have. at least in regards to this set of issues. i dont care that my heart will be spending the better part of the next year in london. id rather it not, but shits what it is, and ill deal with it. in fact ill excell at it, and prove all naysayers wrong. each and every one of them (and maybe even you, although if youre reading this you might have--gulp!--faith in me).

whatevs. the point is i realized long ago that much of our lives are spent wanting more, but i dont want more right now, because i got all the more i could ever wish for. when this happens we are taught we should hold onto, but i dont think were ever really taught how to recognize this, and because of this we rarely ever do. but im not making that mistake. this kind of thing doesnt happen often, and im riding it till the wheels come off.

***

we avoid mentions of who we are or may be but im giving that philosphy the boot for right now. its november 9th, a day of true celebration, and i want to wish cbt and fab wonderful wonderfulness and wish upon them both all the wonderfulness that life has to offer. espesh cbt though. espesh C-B-T.

Have your Pad Thai and make it Mild.

A preface. Welcome to the new world Dr. Dinosaur or whatever your name may be. Archie tells me that you too are addicted to heroine. Well, I've been in some rough spots before. I've had my eyes opened, closed, and jabbed by the iron grip of addiction and the best advice I can give is to put down those Wonder Woman Comic Books and get a job. 

Secondly. It's Lil' Wayne Week here at New Hindenburg. You'll hear a lot of fancy words from Sergei about how Wayne is New Hindenburgian. That's funny, I thought he was a rapper. 

***

Some things don't need explanation to be understood. Earthquakes, Parkinson's, and other things that shake are simply there. Reasons are secondary to their existence. Unlike a thirteen year old girl, they have no need for your validation or attention. Like a thirteen year old girl, Earthquakes can't get enough of Zac Efron. Watch out sir, that's one mistress you don't want to scorn. 

Despite being the most complicated of all natural disasters Earthquakes are the most basic thing in my world. The ground shakes. It's dangerous. No World Series. Jose Canseco stands around confused. 

In the grand scheme of things there are infinite beings and ideas. In the scope of my daily interactions there are only three people and I'm one of them. These other two are the only people I see. I wish I could say it was because they were so groundbreaking. Hell, I wish I could say it was because they were my cell mates, but that isn't true. These people comprise 66% of the human race because we are that closely linked. One just yelled at me to stop typing so he could sleep and dream of a life with POGS. Regrettably, I had to say "No. Fuck you." This is the only free time I have before the booze/mescaline/insecurity kicks in. 

Three beings is enough to make the idea of an omniscient God palatable to the majority of people my parents introduced me to as a child. Don't get me wrong. It's good, damn good, but I'm still hungry for a little bit more. This causes me to search elsewhere, which is where he danger lies. 

Dissatisfaction is the leading cause of stupidity. Seeing as all of us are dissatisfied in our own special, unique ways, we are all stupid in a special way. One may lie in bed, looking all circular, dreaming of sex or egg nog, or a collection of both. One may idle around, telling himself everything's ok, while regressing all the while. One may refuse to sit still, opting instead to run around burning bridges. 

Burning bridges can lead to new relationships or arrests for felony trespassing. The pace also leads to projects, good projects. That glass filled lot? Let's aim high but unintentionally make it a parking lot! We can toil under the sun every monday until we begin to worry about that mole on our arm and our mother's warnings. We can have a vision, we can have promise, we can have sacrifices. Our being can be infused with a sense of purpose that serves to reinvent everything we know and provide something to talk about when drunk or with girls or priests or dogs that sort of look like girls. We can have all this but without any approval we will be shy. We will become insecure. We will talk about it like imperialists. We will attempt to conquer others with our vision of what is beautiful and storm off when these visions don't align.

Without validation, we'll wonder if we're doing it for the right reasons. We'll force things up like Al Sharpton fakes indignation. Suddenly we're selfish, hopeless human beings.  No matter what spark we attempt to try to conjure we'll still be stuck. I'm fine with there being a world consisting of Donald Driver, McDonald's gift certificates, and unnecessary showers. I'm not fine with that being the only world there is. 

A sign was needed. At the very least for hope. At the very most for validation. Sitting in dirt up to your waist, you don't require much. I'd have have have have have have have have settled for a gatorade when the truck came a-calling. alley life leads to homeless escapades, fear culture, and trucks. Jalopys heaped high with furniture and aluminum pass on a ten minute rotation. It could be the same truck every time, I can't bring myself to care. 

This truck came bumbling down the way like a bad halloween costume, it was enough to catch my interest, not nearly enough to sustain it. It came to a stop and a college aged man of college age exited the car with a keg. He hoisted it with little effort before leaving it next to my adopted dumpster. I got back to help. 

Finished with my toil, a friend came to offer help just as I was quitting. To answer your query he always exercises such impecable timing.  We talked about the keg, figuring we'd return it for 5 dollars we could guiltlessly spend on FunYuns. Retrieving the keg we found that it was heavy. It was heavy because it was full of beer. Immediate validation. 

My endeavor may be for my selfish reasons or it could be altruistic. I won't know for sure until Richard Dawkins finishes his study of me. I hope it happens soon. I can't stand these Bonobos any longer. Sex as currency grows tiresome in the animal kingdom. Try as I might these apes just aren't into Loonies. Though my ultimate intentions are as murky as the current edition of the Edmund Fitzgerald (YEAH!!!!!!) I now know why I'm doing what I do. Because there's a chance I'll get a shit load of free beer. Keep it up and I'll end up with Archie. 

This keg got rolled into our home and the search for a tap began.  It caught our excitement for minutes bordering on ten before we were conjured back to ourselves to drown in our own shit. When we ran out of miracles and conversation, Egg Nog occurred to us. A friend, a brother, a blimp captain lives for the shit. He rests under a promotional poster and can't live the 9 months of the year when Nog just isn't feasible. He tried freezing it last year but frozen pizzas just don't allow enough room for a year round supply of anything. 

This year looks brighter though. We are inventing the invention of Keg Nog. He will have the supply he needs. I will have the excuse I need to drink and a reason to keep raking. Someone else will have something new to laugh about and talk about. There's hope for us yet.  

My Universe is looking damn bright right now. Does anyone have a tap?

***

Come free your mind

On this dick, that I have. 

- Lil' Wayne