Breaking the Mold

Dearest Friends and Faithful Readers,

The last month has been a whirl wind, I will try to catch you up.

I ditched Eugene. I know I failed to name the sad sack of a city earlier, but that was because I was afraid of father coming after me. Besides the fact that I am no longer there, this is something that I no longer fear as father and I have recently made amends.

Eugene was shitsville. I hate to be crude, but there is no other way around it. It rained, it was cold, the girls were prudes, everyone was a "hippy" (quotes for a reason, mind you!), and the Mexican food was nowhere near as good as Sergei's friend made it out to be. I also spent much of my two weeks there in a barbaric malaise, which is what I will attribute my sudden liking of cheap supermarket paperbacks (Dean Koontz, I take back every kind word I ever uttered about you!).

Things could have been different in Eurgene, but they weren't. The physical abuse I received early in my visit should have been viewed as a sign of things to come. It was not because of my apparent attraction towards acting foolishly. I am a buffoon from time to time, I cannot make excuses for myself, where none exist.

I finally left town when I came to the realization that my host had no intention of being more hospitable. Instead she wanted to analyze Mary Higgins Clarke and try to figure out why all the boys she liked were so terrible. I have a suggestion for you, it might be that you are unwilling to look past the Oregonians that surround you. Spice up your life with a little variety! I find it hard to placate someone who cannot see what is right in front of their dimwitted eyes!

A quick aside, I fully realize that I am using more exclamation points than is usual, but that is because of my new vigorous approach to life. Now that I have extricated myself from both rehab and Eugene, I have come to the conclusion that it is as magical as some of you have made it out to be!

Two days after leaving Eugene I found myself without a cent and in Portland, an unwilling to prostitute my body yet again I decided it was time to call one of my homes. My first instinct was too call mother of course, but for once I decided to follow the passionate implorings of so many of my friends and not crawl back to mother's nest. If there is one thing that rehab taught me it's that mother was the cause of quite a few of my problems. She refused to let me grow up, and when I was with her I was more than happy to stay the baby she wanted me to be. At some point though I must become a man, and this seemed like the time to do it. So I called father, and looked for help from the man I've spent the last seven years running from.

Father set up a ticket and hotel room for me and we met the next morning in Seattle. After spending a week there, we ventured up to Canada and Vancouver, to spend time with father's old Northwestern roommate, Chaz Gentry.

Chaz and my father's lives have both seemed to mirror one another perfectly, with the exception of Chaz's impotence stopping him from having any spawn of his own. Also Chaz's choosing to go back to his native Canada, rather than staying in the States (as he calls them).
With no familial connections other than a wife in Toronto who he has been separated from for the past nine years, Chaz was quick to invite us both to spend the holidays with him. And that is exactly what we have done.

Father is set to return to Southern California next Friday and had asked me to return with him. I politely declined and told him that it is the right time for me to grow into my destiny as a man. After a cigar of thinking he came around to my way of thinking, and along with Chaz we agreed that I would stay with him in Vancouver for at least a couple of months. I will try to look for a job during this time, but neither of them want me to put too much pressure on myself, so father will provide me with a decent sized allowance in the interim. They have both told me that this is my chance and I must take it, something which I agree with completely.

It is time to become my own man!

-AASLXIII

To Whom It May Concern

Greetings Dear Friend,

It is with immense sadness that I must lay this letter upon you. You see there is a handsome outstanding debt in my book next to your name. As we are currently in a recessive state around here the time has come for debts to be collected and owned up to. You will find a bill enclosed with your outstanding debt noted. If you see yourself unable to fill this receipt please do not respond to this note. Instead, sit back in a comfortable chair and prepare for a friendly visit. Mind you, any attempts to flee or hide will be met with swift strokes from a well worn sledge hammer bearing the title, "Payment." Your cooperation is appreciated and any means to save your own hide will be shined upon. Please leave all funds in an unmarked, sealed envelope at the end of the counter at Plum's Coffee Shop. Do not speak to anyone. Hopefully we will not have to discuss the matter further. Until we do business again...

Cheers & Good Tidings,
Jasper A. Jowls

Bowing Down Where It Is Whole Heartedly Deserved

Standard Hindenburg Preface: We here at Hindenburg dabble in diners and sling shots at those who deserve it. Usually Dennis the Menace. He really is a menace. A M.O.M. Man on a mission. Fucking up Mr. Wilson's life is his jihad. It is to him, what Islam is to Osama. Five times a day he prays to the idea of arsoning Mr. Wilson's plush fuck pad. "Fuck" was used as an adjective. Fuck pads do not yet exist, although the liberator stakes a hearty claim to the throne.

Note: New goal in life. Invent a fuck pad.

Our goal is undefined but we seem to be after beauty and new mythologies. (That's right, I analyze). The problem with beauty is that many instances of "big greatness" have been discovered. We will not bore you with talks of how great the Grand Canyon is, although Curtis Granderson might. He bats lead off you know. What does that say about a person's mental aptitude?

Anyhow, our search for beauty and mythology often occurs in the nooks and crevices of the lives we live and the lives we make believe. However, sometimes we notice something so good under our collective noses that it is a wonder that we have never expunged on the subject before.

Preface is donezo.

I was walking home drunk after a night of awkward conversations and Pat Benetar karaoke. I wasn't that drunk but nostalgia made me even slower. 5 beers isn't much to me anymore, nor should it be with the role model of Benny Franklin. A year ago to date I made the same walk. I was drunk, fucking wasted should have been 'ludes drunk. An ex-girlfriend punched me. I couldn't find my way out of a grocery store parking lot so the Cops gave me a ride home. Three best friends then watched me vomit. It was great fun.

Since I wasn't too drunk tonight I paid attention. To a dollar store. I have always found safe haven in these vestiges of cheapness and watered down cleaning solutions. I never realized the brilliance behind the scheme because I don't really appreciate commerce. I am not opposed to globalization and big business. I don't appreciate commerce because it has done such a good job at solidifying itself as a civic institution that it is there. It doesn't have to vie for our attention.

Sadly, we care about stores. It isn't sad that we care. It is sad that the people sneaking into wallets for our dollars no longer attempt at capturing our imaginations. Gone are the days of rampant attention whoring. No more free hot dogs, no more special events. Bill Veeck put a midget up to bat in the first half of the last century and we are still talking about it. I understand that some banks used to give away free guns for opening an account. With the exception of Minor League baseball (featuring a descendant of Veeck), car dealerships, and furniture stores, everyone else just wants our precious precious bucks.

Dollar stores offer many needs, impulse satiation, and enough glittering silliness to rob us of so many dollars. That is their gambit and they do it like gangbusters. With a static stock of products they are always a new and exciting experience. There is always something new there. It won't be worth a dollar but what the fuck is a dollar to us anyway. I spent six dollars on a beer tonight because the beer lady said it smelled like manure and that it might make me vomit. What do I care if they jack up the price of a Charleston Chew by 40 cents? By giving us something new and otherworldly convenience they are able to rob us. Psychologically we are getting a deal, but the fact is that we are paying three times what the product is worth. We are getting exploited on every front and it feels fucking terrific.

Look at your average dollar store. They are impressive in scope, size, and lighting. They are great at what they do. Like Quizno's except it doesn't feel as close to dirtiness. With fluorescent lighting and unprepared workers they offer a cornucopia of potential and a slew of things we would not find otherwise.

Things I have recently bought at a dollar store include a book by Al Roker on parenting, a woman's belt with rivets, medical wrist bands, and four hula hoops. Some might be bargains but no one would buy the literature of Roker if it weren't a dollar. It was outdated as hell. He was fat on the cover. The title was Don't Make Me Stop This Car. The cover photo was shot in the back of a minivan.

They operate on the uselessness we surmise the dollar to have. They are unaffected by inflation or other economic woes. They are always Dollar Stores, not $1.31 stores or $0.79 stores. They give us the dollar as a given, a certain certainty in a time of uncertainty. The same is also true of Ninety Nine Cent stores, though they are messier.

Where did the idea for a Dollar Store come from? What is their evolution? They've been here my entire life. I can only imagine that some drunk Texas Billionaire stared at a dollar bill with pure hate and came up with the idea. "People don't care about this, let's prey on them".

For your scheme we salute you.

"I got up in such a hurry, I'm still stuck inside my dreams"

A few weeks short of two years ago I packed up all the stuff I could fit into a suitcase and a back pack full of books and took off for half way around the world (or if you want to be precise 3.78/8 of the way) to further my intellectual betterment courses (a.k.a. to attend school).

Like most endeavors I’ve undertaken in my life, I was quite unprepared for living in another country. When I boarded the plane that was bound for my new home country, the only thing I knew was the name of the my school and that even after flying for 12 hours a night long train ride to the treacherous north would await me. See the thing is, I could have studied up, had an actual idea what I was getting myself into, but I chose not too. Actually I was too apathetic about things to actually make a choice, the only real reason for me not reading up on the situation I was about to embark on was due more to laziness than anything else. The only thing I knew was that I was in for a change of scenery, and that was really the only thing that I cared about.

Although this is a recipe for disaster 97% of the time, things worked out. I finally shook things up, breaking out of the stupor that had plagued me much of the previous two and a half years. It was good for me. I traveled like I never had before, I watched it snow ash on a unforgiving-ly cold beach, I got groped by a stalker in a night club, I drank brandy from an Eiffel Tower shaped bottle found at the bottom of a dumpster, and broke my ankle. Oh yeah I also met Jimmy and some other people who flipped my shit. If I were better at cuttin’ to the chase I would have just written that I lived life, maybe for the first time ever.

I bring this up for no particular reason, other than it’s cold and overcast out and it reminds me of the place I called home for the first half of 2006. This whole thing is of course viewed through the awesome colored glasses sometimes referred to as nostalgia, but maybe there’s a reason for the happy go fun memories I have of life across the ocean.

If you couldn’t tell already, I specialize in unreliable narrative.

they soft like the cartons with the eggz in 'em

Fuck Jack Kerouac. Fuck the Beat Poets, Beatniks, and "We Got The Beat" (The Beets, Douglas Funny's favorite band, are still totally cool with me). Somewhere in Nebraska, standing on the side of a windswept highway--okay, there was actually little in the way of wind; I just wanted to romanticise--I took a long, hard look at the cluster of concrete blocks in the distance that would resolve, at some nearer point, into a shopping mall. And I said to myself, "I don't want this." Who was I kidding? I'm not the type for hard-won insight into the plight of every-day America. I'm much more interested in hard-drinking in the finest and/or most overwrought hotel bars of the Eastern seaboard.

So I'm back. Last night, propped against the bar of Blanco's (an establishment so exclusive they don't have a phone, or even a door (you have to climb in through a window)) in a bespoke-tailored suit made personally for me by Hedi Slimane (Hedi's my boi), I felt at peace. I felt as though I had gotten back to my roots. My roots are best nurtured by a bottle or two of Hendrick's and sleeping in until 6:30pm every day, and I was a fool to think otherwise. I shouldn't have let something as silly as a dust-up with New York's finest dermatologist upset me; after all, it was just last month that I was briefly married to New York's finest neurosurgeon, and this past summer I challenged the city's most highly regarded OBGYN to a duel. Guess who won.

But my life is not all 17th-century gold-plated duelling pistols and women doused in Champagne. Sometimes I prefer sabers, or, on rare occasion, scimitars.

"We had to sit down on skateboards just to make it down the hill"

I slashed the fuck out of my hand today.

Dearest Prince Eternia does not like crusts on his sandwiches, but because the entirety of time is constantly on his mind he cannot be bothered to remove them himself. Since I'm guessing the weight of the cosmos is not that easy to carry on ones' shoulders I've been doing the cutting while Prince has been sleeping on my floor. As one can probably guess today I managed to cut my hand while trimming his sandwich to a more manageable size. It sucks but if my wound helps prevent the time and space from collapsing in upon itself, I figure it is well worth it. Plus now I can say I actually have a real life war wound.

***

By the by anyone else remember when slash meant to pee?

For some reason the name of the band Chromeo makes me think of Chef Boyardee style Italian food.

While few people would mistake me for someone who makes a big deal about all things Christmas-y, I am quite a fan of Christmas specials. I loved them when I was young and I love them now as a struggling Russian writer on the verge of vagrantdom.

I also like year-end-best-of-lists.

The combination of decade skipping and the holidays has slowed my writing as of late. I've decided to dedicate much of my time at work over the next two days to getting some writing done though. I'll try to translate this time into some of my patented universe altering posts. Hopefully this idea won't be a shit load of hot air but as with all things we'll see how that goes.

In Search of the Great Late Paragon

When this post is finished I am eating some Beans and Rice. You can't stop me from eating like a Spaniard.

To wit (and to your wonder) I am unsure as to what a paragon is. When pressed at some drunken definition fest I would sputter out three syllables and collapse in a state of semi shock. Also, since I am sputtering you can be sure I've had more than my fill of the filler. Drunk as I am hypothetically, paragon is still an important word to me. Among all my lingo it is among the most said and is quite possibly the most cherished. I think it roughly means "something that is emblematic of something else". That's close enough for me. I don't want you to look it up or clue me in. The way I have come to know or understand paragons is mine alone and I feel dirty at the mere fathom of sharing it with the likes of you.

There have been paragons everywhere lately. Lighthouses lighting the way to a more amusing day and an anecdote to later be told on this blog is enough, but not for paragons like these. These paragons are "something that is emblematic of something else". They signify almost all I know and everything about me. They are why I get up in the morning. They are why when I lose the remote I decide to stop watching TV.

The New Hindenburg took a trek to San Diego last weekend to watch the proud Detroit Lions take on a football team that is actually good. The outcome was 52-14, jalapeños were eaten, we looked Russian, and paid our only attention to the Los Angeles Times we smuggled in our moth balled sweat pants. It would have been a waste of an afternoon, 52 dollars, and 52 LaDainian Tomlinson points if not for the heroic antics of Pete.

Early in the first quarter the smell of beer wafted up from the aisle and tickled the tips of our noses. Pete, a grizzled old man in wrap around shades and a beaten flannel, shuffled down the aisle another beer in hand. He stopped and held an innocent conversation with friends. Then he fell. Then he rolled. He kept rolling. Pete rolled over six rows of Charger fans in a garish display of Belushian acrobatics. Along the way he flipped, somersaulted, and crowd surfed as if Fred Durst himself had ordered it.

It could have been over. With a normal person, not a paragon, a simple gesture could have come and gone like a Spring Rain. We should have known better. Most people would stop after one row. They would not be so lost in the moment that they would fall almost forever. We saw the fall, followed the path of the beer trail, and thought it believable that he could roll 16 more rows and off the balcony. Like a Spring Rain it brought flowers. For the rest of the game Pete sat unmoving in his seat. We thought he could be dead. We also considered that the force of the fall had made Peter shit himself. He was worshiped like a god but wasn't ready to revel. He sat there ashamed. Ashamed for an entire half holding onto both armrests and trying not to move. A young buck asked to shake his hand and Pete simply shook his head "no". He wasn't going to showboat, he was simply going to tiptoe out of the row while holding the hand of everyone out of his fear.

Pete is our paragon of showmanship.

You don't know our next paragon, but he assures us that you will. Like so many small friendships we met on a plane. Houston to Detroit the mother of all drab flights. So boring they didn't even do security checks because no one can manage to give a damn.

His name: Joe Blow
His education: Part of high school
His future: Rap Mega Titan Force of Nature

The plane was empty. We could sit where ever we wanted. Joe Blow decided to sit next to me. He shook my hand and said we had the same name, even though we don't.

Next question: Do you like music?
My Question: Yes.

He hands me a CD player. Not an IPOD, a zune, but a big plastic disc spinner. Clunky and irrelevant, I would have been jealous if I were ten. He then played a homemade CD of himself rapping.

I am going to the top, yo
So don't try to stop, bro
To the top, to the top
I won't stop, I won't stop
T and A is in my DNA

These are actual lyrics from the one and only Joe Blow. Joe explained his rap strategy to me from this point on. Never played a show, won't play a show. Instead he will sell CD's from the trunk of his car.

Next Question: What book you reading?
Next Answer: Rabbit Redux by John Updike
Next Retort: Oh. I thought it might be Who Moved My Cheese?

Tired as I was I fell asleep on the plane. I got woken up with a mother fucking punch in the mother fucking arm. I turn and Joe Blow is smiling at me.

Joe Blow: You want some cereal.
Then we ate cereal together.

This would have been fine and enough for him to become the stuff of legend. When he left the plane he got off with his Mom, onward to attend his Uncle's funeral. He left me and our friendship behind but he did give me one last nugget of brilliance.

The back of his jacket said "Joe Blow".

Joe Blow our Paragon of Promotion

all i ever wanted

Dear Santa,

This year, I think it's finally time that you fulfill my life-long wish, and transform me into a cool-ass little mexican home-bro with a sweet little mustache.

You know what I mean: those tried-and-true motherfuckers that rock worn button-ups and skinny pants (but "cowboy skinny" not "hipster-bitch-panic!-at-the-disco skinny"). And they have a sweet, pencil thin mustache perched atop their mouth, driving their virility status up to somewheres 'round 200, easily trumping the most macho-est lumberjack even while they're just chillin' on the corner, smoking hand-rolled Brazilian cigarettes and sippin' on lukewarm beer from a can.

Come on Santa, don't play me on this; you never got me that Ghostbusters playset when I was 8, and I totally wanted it.

You snow-eating, reindeer-whipping bastard.

Love, Jimmy

P.S.--I once encountered the man below in a stupid-ass bar, and, spitting at the feet of their stupid-ass "rules", I smuggled in a black-top Sparks in my pants and gave it to Spank Rock, and bade him drink from it, and be merry.

P.P.S--The picture above isn't meant as an illustration what I'm talking about, Santa. I just like it. So quit being so literal; Jesus Christ, nobody likes an anal-retentive asshole with eating disorder.

Cuz All You Copy Cat Bitchez Copy Me All Day

2007 will go down as the year that I finally embraced hip-hop.

If you know me this statement might come as a little bit of a shock. In fact the most pretentious thing I've ever said was hip-hop related, when I told a past sweetheart that my love for hip-hop wasn't some, "white boy novelty bullshit." I mean I've always loved hip-hop, but never like I have this year. Before this year hip-hop had been something I listened to in stages, two weeks at a time sprinkled throughout the year. This year though, it all suddenly became essential to my livelihood.

See the thing is despite the color of my skin and the quality of my upbringing hip-hop is sort of tailor made for me. I'm all about hyperbole, shootin' the shit, and awesomeness (see Murs, Ghostface, and pretty much any other MC you can think of). These are three things that hip-hop reeks of. On top of this, because of some of the inherent weaknesses of hip-hop production, producers have often had to fuck with their music to make it sound fresh, trying shit no traditional musician would even dream of. I've heard beats built off of the bouncing of a ping pong ball (Anti-Pop Consortium), dance-y shit that's actually cool (Spank Rock), and undescribable dirtiness (Clipse's "Trill"). This of course equals a lot of weird sounding shit, and being weird myself this just happens to be the kind of shit I really dig. In summation hip-hop let out the olive branch long ago and tried to embrace the fuck out of me, I for some reason turned my back and looked elsewhere.

This year I followed Pharoahe Monch's lead and finally embraced the light and honestly I'm not going to lie the whole years been amazing. If I were one to make lists (and I am) I'd easily say at least half (if not more) of my 10 favorite albums of this year would be hip-hop albums.

The early part was spent enjoying late 2k6's release of Clipse's Hell Hath No Fury (yes it was a 2k6 album, but I kept enjoying it well into 2k7, and as I said elsewhere on Bring Back the Hindenburg nothing represents basketball to me like "Trill"), finally coming to a more than superficial appreciation of Ghostface, and mentally flipping my shit over Spank Rock. But all of that was completely overshadowed by the amazing Clipse show I peaked at in February. Regardless of my feelings towards hip-hop, I've always been hesitant towards live hip-hop shows. Clipse showed me that if its possible to do hip-hop right live and turned in probably the most intense live performance I saw all year.

The middle six months of the year were spent converting to the church of Lil' Wayne. I'd always though of Weezy F. Baby as someone who I could appreciate and respect (in large part because of his prolificness) but never recognized him as the truth speaker he really is ("I need a bitch that can fuck right, cook right," really is there anything more genius than that). Although lacking a proper release this year, Lil' Wayne's mixtapes have had as much impact on my life as any music I've ever listened to. I know this is something that has been reiterated constantly by all of us who matter here, but Lil' Wayne really is one of Bring Back the Hindenburg's godfathers (and maybe it's most important). Overshadowed completely but worth noting was the release of Dizzee Rascal's Maths + English. While no where near Weezy's level, Dizzee again proved his worth and made me all the more sad that he might still be caught in obscurity's grasp. I pray that is not prove to be the case.

Even as the Lil' Wayne releases began to dry up the quality of 2k7's hip-hop didn't wane. The transition from late summer to autumn was marked by my (and pretty much everyone else I respected) repeated listening to Kanye's Graduation. Then there was the rediscovery of MF Doom and how awesome he could be and who can forget the amazing performance by Spank Rock at the otherwise shitty Neighborhood Festival. But as if that wasn't enough the year comes to a close with Ghostface's The Big Doe Rehab and Wu-Tang's 8 Diagrams, which despite somewhat lukewarm reviews is completely flipping my shit in every way possible. The production is atypical and out of this world in all the best ways and I suddenly have renewed respect for Mr. George Clinton and Method Man (dude, I'm almost able to forget about those Meth and Red years).

This thing sort of spiralled out of control about 400 or 500 words ago, so I'll bring things to a close with this: Hip-hop matters more to me now than it ever has, and I'm alright with it. In fact I'm thankful for it. Thank you 2k7, you're the best.

P.S. I hope 2k8 proves to be even better. It could be especially if Tha Carter III, new Spank Rock (more Amanda Blank as well, please), and the Cool Kids prove to be as awesome as they could.

Why do I need a degree?

I don't know why I took this class. hell, I don't even know why I'm in this school. My dream of piloting a blimp doesn't hinge on a great deal of knowledge. It hinges on the ability to sneak on a Carnival Vessel and hijack the shit, kamikaze style. In my fantasies this will also double as my honeymoon. High Crime at high seas, could anything be more romantic? 

I am currently enrolled in an online class through the University of Phoenix. I thought it'd be like an Israeli Medical School, just pay and wish the days away, weeks later there is a degree with your Jewish name on it. (Is there such a thing as Jewish names?). This logic seemed infallible at the time. Shaq got a Master's from University of Phoenix, how hard can it be? Shaq probably tried though. As aloof as he may be he doesn't seem lazy. A lazy person wouldn't masquerade as a cop. They would moonlight as a security guard. I'm lazy. So lazy that I haven't been to my correspondence course in over a month. That was a joke. Lighten up. 

In a cruel twist of fate my Holocaust class is having it's final tomorrow. I have been provided the essays in advance. This has not been a help. Follow me as I attempt to study. 

Part B- Essay 

1. The "Final Solution" took place more or less in three stages. What measures were taken against the Jews in each stage, how did they change, and how did each stage follow from the previous one? 

     Through many cultures in a variety of junctures in History, the Jewish people have long been used as a scape goat. Perhaps it is no coincidence that the term "scape goat" came from a Jewish tradition of placing blame on a goat, smacking it with a paddle, and letting it run away in hopes it will drag the problems along with it. Though the thing I do best is lie, I am not lying now. My 11th grade Sociology teacher, Ms. Cranfield taught me all about this. I remember her best for her strict attendance policies, fancy automobiles, and the fact that she came to my graduation party and gave me a twenty five dollar gift certificate to Best Buy. As a rule of thumb, I try to stay an optimist. it is hard to be an optimist while thinking about Genocide. this is part of the reason why I am ignorant and day dreaming in class. the other reason is because sometimes I think about Unicorns. 

     In post World War I Germany, Jews were taking on an abundance of blame. Blamed for the Armistice and ensuing loss of national pride, a target was placed upon the Jewish people. The Holocaust culminated in the presence of efficiently engineered death camps but it found its origin in the early days of the Nazi party. It is tough to think that something this horrible would be so coldly calculated, so rooted in the imagination of one time. It is even tougher to think that similarly terrible circumstances are occurring all over the world, even now, after we have been already been shocked and awe by the presence of atrocity. It is more awful, still, to think of the myriad of ways it could have been prevented and how government economic interests are taking precedence over human life. it is much easier to think about building a bird house. Just think, a family of homeless birds will have a safe, cozy home for the winter. maybe it will be so warm that they won't have to migrate south for the winter. Their little wings will be so strong and rested! 

    The first phase of the "Final Solution" began in 1933 with the Nazi rise to power. Jews were stripped of legal rights via state sponsored racism. There were also economic boycotts of Jewish businesses and there was coerced immigration, even though it was getting more and more difficult for them to leave. They were removed from politics and weren't allowed to own property. Sterilization laws were also put into effect in 1933. During this period the Jews were subjected to escalating violence, culminating in the Kristallnacht. These are the basics of the first phase. To avoid any detail is not a cop out, it would be crippling to do so. 

      The second phase began when Germany invaded Poland and World War II began. A system of containment was considered for the Jews. One of this plans was the idea of sending them to Madagascar. They didn't go through with this plan, instead they opted for something much worse. You can see examples of this second phase in films such as The Pianist. Movies about "The Final Solution" have more guts then I do. You should probably just watch them. They are always directed by directors of significance, the Holocaust film is becoming a bulwark of many top directors and a good bet for Oscar recognition. 

     The third phase was... Ms. Cranfield used to take vacations to Europe with a group of other history teachers. I'm sure they could tell you all about it.  

The End. 

We've been controversial lately haven't we? 

THE LIST - Why NewHindenburg has gotten so damned muckraking 

1. Outrage over the writer's strike and not enough outlets

2. Eggnog binge

3. Went deaf, can't hear criticism. 

4. Sold our blog to Charlie Ward. 

Magic Johnson be ownin' everything like he should

The room I currently reside in (you may remember it from previous mentions of my cinderblock apartment complex, just seconds walking distance from L.A.'s famous meat packing district) is an exaggerator. What I mean is that whatever the condition is outside of my apartment, my actual room intensifies it to the nth degree. For example in the summer it was uncomfortably hot outside. In my room it was like an oven. Right now L.A. is going through one of its infamous cold streaks which means that my room is like an icebox except without the presence of Eskimo Pie ice cream bars. It is a bummer but it is a bummer I have to live with.

My posts here lately have been disappointing. They have not been representative of the shit I'm going for. Trust they've been awesome (seriously my shit is enthralling if you give it a glance) but deep down I know I can do better. I am not one to write about my mother's apocalyptic muffin recipes (that would of course entail my having a mother) or about girls I went to high school with who we called Tig Ol' Bitties (of these there were plenty), but these are what my posts have been made of these last few months.

Fact is I expect more of myself, and so should you. I seek to lift the veil from the truth but instead I've been spending my time toiling in the mire with the mundanities of life. In other words the boring shit. See the thing is I am fascinated by all that life has to offer (a fact that Chuck, Jimmy, Arch, Prince and even Minxie would readily attest to) but that is not the purpose of Bring Back the Hindenburg. This is not your typical blog. This is a revolution and I have to start treating it as such.

In this time of need I have turned to two trusted sources for inspiration: the writing of Kurt Vonnegut and the films of Jeff Goldblum. Both executed their chosen crafts like true mother fuckers; Vonnegut wrote with a fiery passion about life and human being, two things he had little to no faith in, and Goldblum--well he just manages to be the consummate incarnate of awesomeness. Sure they both occasionally allowed themselves to peak down divergent roads, Vonnegut through his unparalleled ability to draw asshole and Goldblum through his seeming air of obliviousness, but there was always something more there, something which demanded that you pay attention.

All I've shown you so far is that I can draw assholes and be oblivious to things of shocking importance, but now is the time to transcend this and prove my worth. Now is the time to be amazing.

beastly terminology

As I've been riding the rails these past weeks (and, by "riding the rails" I of course mean secreted in the cab of a Wal-Mart/Sams Club semi-truck, languidly reclined atop a pile of recently unpackaged Tickle Me Extreme Elmos), I've been fantasizing a lot. Given that this trip itself is, thus far, a fantasy that has yet to live up to my expectations--it is hard to connect with quaint salt-o-the-earth American folk while doing 70 in a humid, windowless cab on the Interstate--I need something to fill my bored and beleaguered head. Thusly:

Three people Lil Wayne wants to smoke three blunts with:
1) Oscar de la Hoya
2) Bill Gates
3) Tom from Myspace

Three people I want to smoke three blunts with:
1) Lil Wayne
2) Gabriel Garcia Marquez
3) Tom from Myspace

People I no longer want to hang out with after seeing them in The Golden Compass:
1) Daniel Craig
2) Little British kids

People I still want to hang out with, despite their involvement with The Golden Compass:
1) Sam Elliott
2) Any and all armored polar bears

Television shows I pretend to love but secretly hate, or pretend to hate but secretly love:
1) The Hills

Things I like to mix with vodka:
1) Tonic
2) Sparks
3) Cranberry juice cocktail
4) Orangina
5) More vodka
6) Rice Chex

New Words in Treacherous Territory OR the worst thing you will ever read.

Given that one of my hobbies is reading and that a small portion of pride hinges on how often I read, I spend a good deal of time reading about sports. In my youth I plowed through the greats like Plimpton and certain oral histories of the ABA. These were the books that stirred my imagination, allowing sports to become the far reaching cultural metaphor and path of lessons and curses that guides much of my young (I think I'm in my 30's) life. Either I should have saved some of the good ones or I should look harder for good sports book because all that seems to be left now is a cacophony of over analysis and overreaction that teach me about the 3-4 defense rather than hilarity or myself. It isn't bad that the media has evolved, but what is bad is the blatant repetition of so many cliches. Pounded into our heads they become untouchable truths until sports reverts to its fickle, coincidental nature. Truths become lies and all we have left is memories of hyperbole.

"Football is a violent game."

There have been many recent tragedies in the game of pro football. I won't go into the specifics because that isn't the mission. What I will go into is the explanation. It is thought in many circles that since football players must tap into an instinctive, somewhat dangerous place for success on the field that it can lead to violence off of it. This could be true in certain cases. It might not be. That isn't important. What is vital here is that the argument makes sense. Reaching a higher, simpler level of life you become more powerful. That power can be used for a purpose, ie tackling Marion Barber, before getting easily discarded, or it can be the other thing. it can linger. With over confidence and the right situation, anything can seem possible. It should seem this way if you are a God on the field. If your body and mind provide such a clear path to adrenaline and destruction I will say that there is at least an inkling of a chance that things could go wrong.

What if you don't have an outlet for your passion. What if the world is your oyster? What if you're known and renowned for your visceral, adrenaline infused output. This same output is used as a rallying cry for those seeking to get fired up, know to induce cheers and better performances, while fueling so many B-Movie montages.

I guess what I'm trying to ask if "What if you're Gary Glitter?"

Gary Glitter is a musical icon, especially in England and at Sporting Events. Much of his adult life has been marked with a string of other worldly successes that have seperated him from the common man and put him on a pedestal next to other heroes, such as Gallagher. He owned a restaurant and a string of chart topping hits around the world. I presume he also owned one of the first VCRs. While I am assuming I can also guess that he bought both the Beta and the VCR because Glitter is fancy like that. So fancy, in fact, was Glitter that his name was synonymous with bright sparkling successes.

Nowadays the word Glitter conjures up a Mariah Carey movie, small bits of aluminum, and the world's second most musically gifted pedophile.

Was he always a pedophile? Or was there some change along the way? Such a drastic departure from society is usually explained with some deeply rooted trauma. Michael Jackson's dark habits have been rationalized using the rationale that he never had a childhood and wanted to have one. This also implies that Michael Jackson didn't talk to many kids before embarking on his second childhood. Hell, it implies that the man is unable to understand anything other than how to make one move.

I was brainstorming ideas for music videos the other day. It is a fun thing to pretend and I don't own a TV, so it is my best entertainment outlet. One of the songs I used as a lightning rod for ideas was Glitter's Rock and Roll Part II. I knew this song. I had many memories of it. I remember hearing it at many sporting events before a rally. I recall the emotion of being taken to another level. A place where nothing was impossible. A place where I could do no wrong. Regardless of my actions the world would love me still.

If this song produces such a strong effect of me, there is a chance that it speaks something stronger of it's producer. There is something big inside Glitter. Purpose, confidence, and a "Take No Prisoner's" attitude lie behind every chord of his music. What does it say about Glitter that his style is marked by such characteristics? Don't even try to tell me that is reflects someone cognizant of boundaries, human rights, and what actions are fucked up.

Using this song as a springboard Glitter had decades of success in a world of treats and fantasies that are usually fiction (and even then usually conjured by a genie). Is it possible that Glitter got pushed so far and became so bored that the only applicable challenge was to break society's greatest taboo and turn our purest objects into items of lust? Imagine what you would do if this song was playing in your head every waking moment.

It is disgusting. it is reprehensible, but it is possible. Adrenal effects are a dangerous and slippery slope and a lifetime of tapping into such a place can lead to a Vietnamese Prison.

A Good Life Despite the Absence of Shuttlecocks

For much of the past week I have been spending my nights sleeping in the bed of one Ms. Jessie Spano. She is the bartender who so graciously provided me with medical care after I was viciously assaulted last Saturday night. In case you were wondering, she is everything I feel a woman should be. I feel like this just might be love.

In other news, it rains here quite frequently. It rained plenty when I was living with mother in Chesapeake Bay but it was nothing comparison to this. I cannot fathom how life long residents of this part of the country have been able to deal with this for their whole lives. I know I would be quite depressed. Definitely much more so than I am and as has been well documented on Bring Back the Hindenburg I am a very depressed person.

I have been drinking a bit lately. Only a drink or two each day. The rain gets me all out of sorts, so I often need a quick jolt of brandy in the morning. Something to wake me from my stupor.

Because of the rain and my fear of the bar Jessie works at, I have been spending most of my time lying on her bed reading books from her "bookshelf." John Grisham is a bit too simplistic for my tastes, but I find Sue Grafton and Dean Koontz to be quite to my liking. Bang up job on Life Expectancy in particular Dean. I really do like these page turners, much more interesting than the things I read in high school. Not as time consuming either.

I should probably bring this post to an end. Jessie gets out of class in an hour or so and she made me promised to take her to lunch afterwards. It really is wonderful, this thing called love.

-AASXLIII

I Need A Knit Cap

In my past I have told you many truths. I've explained how Archie is an injector, Remus is a rapscallion, and how Curtis Granderson is a fuckwad. That doesn't matter now. I tell these things to everyone and I still don't know who Remus is. I presume he is possibly the King of Sweden.

There is a party. A legitimate, swoiree swirling about my midst. Here I am writing to you, a small core of Archie's lovers and Charlie's family. That's ok I suppose. Maybe I could gun for the quick fuck but I'd rather wait for love. I am the best person in at least 7 lives. I am not he best person I know, I'm not the person I ought to be. That person works at the zoo and lets the animals run around free at night. That is a person who deserves whatever they want. I don't think I have done that yet.


This is the first drought of my life. Like Andrea Bargnani or John Updike, two brothers in the grand scheme of it, I will not take charge. I can wait idly. I can twiddle my thumbs. Then and only then will the game come to me. In that instant I will actually appreciate the game.

Chris Kaman is reaching new heights. We ought to be there for him. Dismiss those silt conversations with silly neighbors, don't chase that tail feather. The most rewarding experience you can have is to watch Chris Kaman. He is tall, ugly, and addled with the ADD that defines his and my collective experience. It is a matter of fact that is you shoot arrows off your roof that we have something in common. I look at this glimmer and hope I will someday destroy all that is around me. I want the literary equivalent of 18 points and 14 rebounds. I also want the literary equivalent to Brazilian restaurants. My ambitions are boundless, endless, and silly. Tim Burton. We are strangers, but I think I get it.

Let's go to the Congo and pretend that it's Nigeria. Screaming won't protect us forever.

A special welcome to Vincent Vermouth. He will blow your min d in unusual ways starting as soon as he figures out how to post.

Mother and Son with Asperger's

12:39- It's my first day on the job and already somebody has accused me of wanting to be African.
12:40- 12:39 slipped away before I got to
12:41- Fuck, this keeps happening. Just 3 minutes ago
12:42- there was a beautiful black woman bound in duct tape on my bed and I could only think about
12:43- making love to the croon of White, Barry Mr. "Why are you blogging!? You can't blog right
12:44- now! Now!" I'm told if I devote 10 minutes to this that. Can I have that hat back? I AM NOT A VICTIM OF DATA SMOG.
12:45- But, but, but, I don't wanna. I'm rereading the past 6 minutes and I'm ashamed.
12:46- For whatever reason I'm entirely passive in my wasting of 6 minutes saying nothing of import. I'm mostly thinking about Bohr Atoms.
12:47- Tomorrow morning Santa Claus will test me on them. I'd like to sit on his lap and ask for the answers. He
12:48- strikes me as the type to enjoy it. Temporarily insane my ass. I'm just getting started.
12:49- When will I grow substantial facial hair? Apparently that is where the power lies.

Vincent Vermooth

Welcome to the Gravy Train

We here at Hindenburg are used to drama. The presence of Archie and Minxie insures that every Thanksgiving ends with one of them throwing the Turkey across the room in support of Republican Party Dark horses. They do this and they can't even vote. Minxie is a felon, Archie doesn't know how. Though they are a constant burn, we are used to it, it's who they are and, worsely, who they want to be.

Today's drama comes from our omnipresent conscience, ethical compass, and Detroit Tigers centerfielder Curtis Granderson. During our friendship you've taught us to whittle, lectured us on the buddy system, and provided everything our summer camp counselors never could. We thought we knew you. With the trade of Cameron Maybin we thought your demons on insecurity would be quelled and that you would finally buck up and enjoy a clean, Applebee's laden life. I didn't expect this...

http://www.freep.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20071121/SPORTS02/311210004/0/ENT01

You really have some explaining to do Curtis. I hope you'll do so soon.

I need to forget, I must move on. I need the synthesizer to do so. No other instrument so innately captures the human soul. Triumphs, failures, and small instances of life can't be captured by the French horn. When I want to concentrate, try, or think the best think to do is listen to a single keyboard loop over and over.

The List: The Best Things to Say to a Fed Ex Delivery Man
1. How much would it cost to mail myself to you?
2. I don't know about you but if I worked at Kinko's I imagine I would only eat at Subway. Do you like the Carne Asada?
3. When you're alone do you ever just stop and sniff the packages?
4. What's the best thing you ever delivered?

Using number 4 as a launch pad. IU am often bored. There is a general unwillingness to share details, anecdotes, and deeelights (grove is in the heart, my ass). When conversation reaches a standstill the first impluse shouldn't be to ask what TV shows someone likes. A much more applicable question is "what is your favorite thing in the world?" or perhaps "what are your 5 best memories?"

These are personal, these are intimate. Isn't that what conversation should be about. They also prove a good litmus test. If you ask someone their favorite thing in the world and they say "beer" or "gerbils" than you know that person is suspicious. Real suspicious.

What's your favorite thing in the world? Comment below.

well if that aint just some cold shit

After my last post, which periferally referenced Dr. Jonathan Zizmor (New York City's greatest dermatologist and, most probably, lover, cricket batter, and sushi chef) I decided that it was absolutely essential to cultivate a friendship with this bad-ass dude-bro, so that I might a) have a kick-ass wingman to trump any and all fratty assholes at fratty asshole bars downtown, b) enjoy the company of a fellow intellectual titan, and c) get some clear-as-the-plains skin via J-Ziz's (ostensibly) patented fruit acids technique.

So I rolled on over to the doctor's swank Upper West Side digs. Damn, who knew a dude could or would hook up two fireplaces, a woodworking shop, and an olympic-size swimming pool in the same room? Fuck you, it is so true--I found this exact thing when, upon arriving and being summarily dismissed by a servant I can only assume was fired the next day for the error, I hopped the wrought-iron fence and (removing my hat Elwood Blues style) punched a hole in the nearest accesible window.

Now, I'm not one to drink and tell--particularly because I usually fail to remember--but suffice to say I happened upon the good Dr. Zizmor and plied him with some of his finest Cognac. Within an hour, we were slapping backs and tellin' yarns like old college buddies. Within two hours, we were bitter enemies, and within two hours and twenty-six minutes, ol' Ziz looked in dire need of some of his own dermological care (on account of the battering I gave him via fisticuffs, if you catch my drift here).

Upon Zizmor's utilization of some sort of electronical security beacon (which I would call a "Pussy Whistle"), I made a quick exit, appropriating a passing bike messenger's trusty 15-speed steed. I spent the next 2 days and nights in the untamed area of Central Park known to bird watchers and hobos as The Ramble.

Now I have crept to a Starbucks on 110th Street, and, with a bit of the ol' Pterodactylus charm (which I inherited from my grandfather, Jorge--my father was a decidely uncharming man), managed to borrow a bit of time on a film student's laptop.

It is time that I went "on the lamb" as it were, time to pull my own Kerouac--though I, of course, never stooped to playing college football or living in Florida.

It's time to plunge into the future of art

I've been giving a lot of thought to speed posting lately, so here it is, my first attempt. a post in just under 5 minutes. This post will include whatever strikes my fancy over the next 5 minutes, so don't expect any narrative structure. At least not a legible one.

I live alone. Well I used to. An old buddy of mine, Prince Eternia moved in this past weekend. Actually decided to commandeer my couch would probably be a better way of putting it. I am excited though. His recent foray into grabbing hold of his destiny have made him a more interesting person. What else would you expect of someone who'd recently started traveling through time.

I hear him moaning from the bathtub. I can't quite decipher it but I'm guessing that he is asking me to remember to note that he has come to late 2007 in search of a wife. Ideally he'd like a girl named Alexandra. It'd also help if she is smaller than him. He is 5'11."

I was kicked out of a bookstore yesterday. My excitement over finding a 1976 paperback copy Updike's Rabbit, Run, was deemed inappropriate and I was asked to leave. I calmly slipped the book into my waste band and left with a simple, "Fuck all y'all. It's a bookstore there's nothing wrong with me being excited about finding a book here."

Time's running out so in keeping with recent history I'll end this shit, with a quick list:

Things I will do to Dartmouth next time I see him

1. Break his ankles and hit yet another pull up j on him.
2. Punch him in the face for being a philistine. And not the good kind.
3. Chastise him for his continued support of right wing religious cults
4. Mock him for his family's inability to defeat ebola. You need tougher genes.
5. Steal his honey like I stole his bike

Two Girls, Not My Cup of Tea

In this post I am being held hostage against my own will. Ummm, you can probably gather from the previous statement that this was not my idea. Gist of it is, I found some great works and in order to publish them I had to offer my peculiar insight on a subject that otherwise escapes my frame of reference.

While I find 2girls1cup.com to be the most tasteless, distasteless, flavorly dull website I've ever consumed I have to grant that they, with shit in all orifices, are at the very least using thgeir imaginations. While not the most daring fetishist I smile in chagrin at their daring, cadence, and sensual swagger. I have never been friends with a star athlete or Johnny Knoxville but I imagine that they have very similar attitudes about sensuality. This might not be a compliment but at the very least it lets me appreciate something I would otherwise vomit at.

This next post is by my good, introverted friend Daniel Lawlor. If he was a girl he would like to be tied up and we would be married by now. We plan to turn Homosexual and wed at the age of 25. I am not sure who will tie up who, but I promise to use square knots.

When I was in first grade, my teacher had placed a major focus for the year on spelling and reading. To this end, we were separated into different groups and whichever group had done the best in spelling that week would be allowed to select a special prize from a table she’d set up in the back of the room. Usually the toys were shitty dollar-store fare – a bouncy ball, a cheap plastic robot, whatever. But one week, in which I had the distinct good fortune of being in the best group, was the prize of all prizes: a bird’s nest. A pristine bird’s nest, sitting along among children’s books and colored pencils. Naturally, I had to have it. So when we all got up to line up in front of the prize table, I made sure I was first. Now, it didn’t matter what order we lined up in as the order in which we picked was purely at random, based solely on the teacher’s whims. But it didn’t matter – I had to have that bird’s nest, so I lined up first and kept my eyes on the prize the whole time. Maybe it was the gleam in my eye, maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t yet been chosen first, maybe it was just luck – but when she called my name first, it felt like fate to me. Striding up to that table and selecting the small brown bird’s nest, I must have been the happiest boy in the entire world. After I made my selection and returned to the line, the teacher casually asked “Who else wanted the bird’s nest?” And I wasn’t surprised a bit when every other kid in that line raised their hand immediately.

Continuing on the found poetry motif I have recently been innundated with Penis Enlargement emails. These are not the normal fair. Someone out there must know that I want my penis to be huge if only for hilarity's sake.

This next entry is from one Lillian Dailey

Greeting Hoofing

It is the size of ones c nlz oc eei k which determines success

Lilian Dailey

This next entry is from Roderick Chaney. I swear to God it is taken word from word. I think I owe it to them to order.

Compliments Kareem Virgins always whooped at me and even youths did in the urban comfort station! Well, now I whoop at them, because I took M mrx E sds G xoh A ny D lmy I xwn K for 6 months and now my p hiz en en is is immensely lo bu ng uby er than federal.

I do not know how to respond to this. Should I question them to prove it or should I immediately worship at the alter of their wisdom? Given such literate lingo and grasp of slang I can only hope that Compton has developed to the point of trying to scam my credit card number. Either that or Allen Ginsburg faked his death and finally found an applicable outlet. Fuck that, Ginsburg was a bottom and probably didn't care about his cock size. Brautigan. Richard Brautigan. You old Berkley hero of my Dad's legends. You of the horn rimmed glasses. You of the trout fishing brilliance. You of the imagination, guile, will, and flat out scary honest whimsy that makes my fucking ignorant heart ache at the mere mention of "Halloween in the Sea". Richard, do you want me to have a bigger penis? I doubt the pills will work but I'll do it for you. I'll do it immensely longer than federal.

Just Another Night at the Bar

American and Europe are different in many ways. One of those ways, is that in Europe it is much easier to find an internet cafe than it is in small town U.S.A. Granted this may be because most of my time was spent in Europe's metropolises but irregardless, it can be a drag getting access to the internet when you do not have a computer of your own.

Anyway although this absence is much shorter than previous ones, I apologize nonetheless. I have been wanting to write for past two days. What happened two days (actually, nights) ago, you might ask? Well it just so happens that me, Archibald Aurelius Samuelson the XLIII, was involved in my first ever bar fight.

Although I was in a bar I was not there to drink. In fact I was just there to eat free pretzels and watch a basketball game on the television. I am not really a basketball fan, but from time to time I like to attempt to tap into the zeitgiest of sports fans. It is a world I do not really understand, but one which seems to have such an astronaumical hold on so many others. Plus the town I was in is about as quiet as they come, so it was either that or another night of E.M. Forrester's company.

The game itself was actually quite exciting. The hometown team seemed to dominate for nearly the entirety of the game. Their star player, was phenomenal drifting from one end of the court to the other like a gazelle, occasionally pulling up to throw the ball in the basket. It was fascinating watching him out there, seemingly in complete control of the game. But things went awry in the final 30 seconds and around the 10 second mark the star player threw a savage elbow into the head of a player on the other team. The court turned to bedlam, as did the bar, and the player was ejected.

This set one of the bar's patrons into a particular fury. He went on an on about how the "refs were always stickin' it to us," knocking over his drink and a bowl of pretzels in the mean time. For some unbeknownst reason I saw this as a time to speak up, pointing out that this was not in fact a case of the referrees "sticking it to" him or his team, and in fact the star player deserved to be thrownout of the game for his violent action. Unsurprisingly this was not what he wanted to hear.

He immediately shot from the stool he was attempting to sit on and started thrashing out at me, with both hands. I am not by natured a fighter, so all I did was put my hands up and cover my face. It was a passive plan of action, but I feel it probably saved my face from a few punches. Eventually others in the bar attempted to pull him off of me, but just as it appeared the nights hostilies were over, he broke loose of their grasp and ran at me, screaming the most confusing of phrases.

"Taste my fuck!"

His last punch was a true wallop, for the next thing I knew it was five minutes later, and I was in the bars back room with the beautiful bartender (Sandy, I believe her name was), with a bag of frozen peas pressed against the entire right side of my face. I asked what had happened, and she answered as plainly as I could have hoped for at that time.

"You just got knocked out."

-AASXLIII

gettin' more from zizmor

Sometimes, a man has to saddle up, get licked on cheap vodka and expensive powder drugs, and then spend the rest of the weekend in bed. Yes, it takes a lot of courage to go to bed at 6am on Saturday and then stay in bed until Sunday--at which point you are permitted, by the rules and regulations of bravery, to crawl to the couch and watch Bringing Down the House twice through (you know what ages really well? Scenes where the characters communicate through Instant Messaging; gripping!). If you have the gusto, make a grilled cheese sandwich, and if you ain't yeller, wash it down with an ice-cold beer (call it a "brewski" if you think you can handle it).

Finally, as the climactic "fuck you, God", to an already very "fuck you"-esque weekend, resolve to grow a bitchin' pony-tail.

We really love the Lions

The most fulfilling thing in Sports is cheering for a doormat. Disappointment is constant but so is the potential. It isn't annoying or assholish to be a fan of the said team, but cute. It is fun to rifle through the star wideout's trash, stop in to offer draft advice, and almost get killed at opposing stadiums It also lends itself to dreaming. 

Happy Halloween

The Holidays bring family, parties, and the stealing of nativity scenes. Don't worry too hard though, the nativity scenes are only being borrowed until Easter wherein they are returned with a note reading "Keep the Faith and the Change - J.C." 

My family is a right wing Catholic family tinged with alcoholism and an inability to embrace black quarterbacks. I will always remember the Christmas I was allowed to pick the family activity and decided to spend the day with my homeless Uncle in the woods. This might have been the same Uncle who when driving near a river offered the bribe "If we drive into the river we'll meet Jesus faster", but that didn't stop us from spending Christmas Eve chasing a ferret around a fire. 

At Christmas parties I am only allowed to talk to my cousin with slight autism, a whistle, and felony charges. With that in mind I am trying to envision ways to get kicked out. 

The List

1. Bring a flask of Vodka and offer it to the Children as the blood of Christ. 

2. After the Pickle is found in the game "Find the Pickle" stubbornly protest that it is a cucumber. Soak pickle shaped ornament in brine 

3. Discuss my sister's fake lesbian wedding and how I think it's the right thing to do. Also, discuss this with a lisp while wearing an earring. 

4. Invent a new cousin from the body parts of already existing cousins. 

A Love of Blow Job Jokes

Certain things are meant for certain people. Listening to anything in Of Montreal's catalog I can only visualize patrons of Outback Steakhouse. 

With that in mind the upcoming film, Walk Hard seems destined for my father. An avid fan of rough humor, musical history, and over weight shirtless men, it seems as if John C. Reilly tapped into my father's subconscious and sucked ideas out with a straw. It seems this way also because my father has recently suffered brain damage and I need a scape goat. The scape goat is Hollywood. Paralyzed by the writer's strike they have undoubtedly decided to steal ideas from my father, thus paralyzing him. 

I'll still be wheeling him into the theatre on December 21st. However it won't be handicap accessible so he'll have to enjoy the film while covered in bruises. It won't matter, he can't feel. 

Here's a comic. Click to make it bigger. 

When you don't get their geography, read their map.

Fair or not, things hold connotations. We aren't thinking big here. We are thinking the opposite, which is to say that we're thinking small. Quark sized actually.   

Certain glimmers of detail harbor great truths. The quality of an awning is almost always indicative of how good a florist is. This is easy though, a classy awning proves they care about the garnish (the real bouquet standard bearer). These details go unnoticed at first but after enough experiences you begin to equate them with a certain something, which then becomes a standard. 

In the case of Comic Books, plastic is the great indicator. Strident, sterile organization screams a terrible signal at some, of which I am one. As a child I found my way into a fair amount of hobby shops. I'm not sure I liked them, I am doubtful that I ever appreciated their aesthetics, I only recall my lust for more and more Tony Clark rookie cards. In my brief forays I paid little mind to the section of the store reserved for Comic Books. I had no need for escape when Catholic School and Patrick Ewing posed such an interesting reality. Also, these sections were usually filled with fat guys.

 

As we get older, we usually change. These changes in philosophy and action aren't marked by revelation but interest (in the vast majority of cases). Some kids start to like Korn, later they become idiotic, and puke on top of your mother's garage onto downlookers below while wearing an LSU t-shirt. Some kids get into religion, then get into accounting. In a growing blight, some kids get into Comic Books, I mean REALLY get into Comic Books. This is usually followed by physical atrophy and a lifelong relationship with your first girlfriend. Though Christians argue otherwise, we at Hindenburg call these bad things. 

The connotation of Comic Books scares me. Thank heavens to betsy I find them repulsive. 

SpiderMan, SuperMan, Dr. Potato Boiler, Little Cotton Muncher, and all other super heroes sit in a universe so dynamic and adventurous that I can not relate it to my little world of Macrame. Further more i believe that the Comic book format does little to capture the details that provide both entertainment and resonance. Given the short attention span required to enjoy such a medium I seem a perfect fit. However, with simple statements and bare bones story lines I find the disjointed arrangement of this comic books more of a bastion to think about other things, rather than a separate form of entertainment. 

It isn't just comic books either. Comic strips, words with pictures, and any story driven series of drawings fail to provide any real spark. It doesn't feel right. It doesn't seem real. it is mortifying to admit that I once owned a book of Foxtrot Comics. Of course given the rules of everything, 10% of these are probably good. However, they don't change the game, they just provide proof that the game isn't pointless. 

Now for the hypocrisy. We're starting a comic. Based on my own adventures, anecdotes, and dreams these will be horribly done, crudely conceived, and a waste of your time. I have no idea why I am  doing this, but you can just assume that it's out of self loathing because you'll probably want to imagine me slitting my wrists after reading them . Fittingly I call them... My Stupid Life.