My New Year's Resolution!

This is a hammer. 

I've been trying to write a blog post beginning with this sentence for over a week now. Conditions of the world, good and bad--arguing, obligations, and friends--have bound together to prevent m from doing any writing, any revising or anything good what so ever. This is no surprise. Life is a tilt-a-whirl and I'll be spun wherever the good spinning is. 

Returning home to Detroit, Michigan came just in time. A part of me, a vital one at that, had wandered off waiting to baited back with the right moment. The proper mix of festivities. I boarded the plane as a 22-year-old man. A 22-year-old-man eating a candy apple but a man nonetheless. 

Since stepping off the plane and eating one of mother's omelets, I've entered on a souped-up alcohol laden tour of the life I've lived so far. Unlike so many disappointments (I'm looking at you Snuggies) this stretch has swept me off my feet. Each day is cathartic, via a milestone or looking glass. My mind is fit, trained for analysis, but observing a moment objectively, it becomes quite easy to decipher what period the stance stems from. Yesterday, I was 19 in the morning as I wrote silly commercials. 8 as I discovered the sensory sensation of high definition goggles. 16 as a wonderful girl put butterflies in my stomach (literally and figuratively!). 

I have several mantras I repeat to keep me grounded. 

1) Peace above me, peace below me, peace within me. 

2) Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! 

3) Life is about the journey. 

The last is my favorite. Overwhelmingly the idea of product outweighs the joy of the process. Running about in the desert, limbs a' flailin' and pumpin' perspiration from every pore, makes humanity feel damn good. It isn't about exercise. It isn't even about where you're going. The task at hand is more than enough. Do the same thing with the aim of getting in shape, gaining a few inches on your vertical leap so may dunk, etc. There will be no good visions, just insidious visions of success. 

This same problem turned writing a novel from a jolly jaunt into an intrinsic battle of the gaudiest proportions even though writing is very very very very very easy. Words are but a moment's effort, a traipsing of tendrils across the keyboard. DISCLAIMER: If you agree with certain anthropologists and regard language as purely instinctual skip this paragraph. The book is out on a paper, far from a finished product with no discernible end in sight. It could have been easily finished by now, perhaps even two or three times over but in the early going I committed to only writing when consumed by the process. If my imagination went into full tilt, prompting visions of hardcover books embossed with my name, I did not write that night. That'd be the same as masturbation. As a writer I attract attention to the writing. This is an effective tool for conjuring a voice but utterly useless when ego gets involved. 

The lesson of going home, returning as some pseudo-conquering hero: everything adds up. 

I'm taking a ballet class to fuck everything up. 

What (I Think) I've Learned...

I've been mulling this blog post for about a week and a half but never got around to it for a variety of reasons; the main one being that I've recently lost all confidence in my ability to put together cohesive thoughts on paper (or computer screen, in this case). I'm not sure why this feeling is suddenly affecting me, as I've never been all that worried about the clarity of my writing. I've always just written, trusting that someone would be able to extrapolate what I was trying to get at.

But now that Andrew and Jeff have added their musings to the blog, I guess it's time for me to do the same. I'm usually late to the party anyway.

Anyway, here goes, what I've learned (in no particular order):

I once lived in an avocado. It smelled, was always dirty, the plumbing rarely worked, and a homeless man lived beneath my window; but all and all it was a wonderful experience. A time of hope and love.

I cherish my alone time, but have come to enjoy the company of certain others much more.

John was right.

A coworker of mine constantly complains about how unfair the world is. No shit, dude. We don't have to dwell on this though.

My friends are my family.

This doesn't mean I don't like my actual family. In fact, they are quite cool. It just took me awhile to figure that out.

I like tacos. Much more than I realize, according to everyone else.

My brain is packed with loads of unnecessary information. Seriously, I can have a conversation about practically anything. The drawback is that I know little of what I should actually know.

I write in an attempt to capture the speed of thought.

The mundane is fascinating in the right light.

Don't drink out of Eiffel Tower shaped brandy bottles you find in dumpsters. It's not a good idea. Also, don't hang out in dumpsters.

I am the fasted man alive when I've had too much to drink.

Driving on the freeway alone at night can be wonderful.

I am very comfortable with who I am.

Two of the best things I've ever read are comic books.

I get way too much enjoyment out of reading message boards. It's that whole staring at a car wreck thing, I know someones going to say something awful/retarded

My syntax can be absolutely atrocious, for no other reason than I often growed bored of a sentence before I've finished writing it out.

And don't get me started on my grammar.

If I talk to you it means I like you.

Museums are the best place to go on the first date, especially if neither of you realize it's a date.

I want to grow up to be a decent person who continues to experience love and has days filled with good conversations. If I do that I'll be happy.

***

Notes unrelated to the rest of this post:

Nico doesn't like it when Joel writes about basketball, but I must take this opportunity to note that the Lakers beat the Celtics tonight. Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!

The winter of my senior year it was so cold in my apartment that I pulled a muscle while shivering in bed one night. It was totally not awesome.

I am back, after a year long vacation. Look forward to future posts written in the voice of a valley girl. We're pretty much the same after all.

P.S. This is Bryan (theoretically)

What I've (kind of) Learned...

Well... I guess I'm now TWENTY-TWO years-old. When I was a kid I remember thinking to myself: "You'll be an adult when you hit 21. That's the age that you can drink alcohol legally, and so the world must trust you when you've got that many years. With age comes wisdom and responsibility." My fucking god, was I wrong. The civilized world, though thousands of years old, is as immature and confused as I've always been.

The following ramblings represent a few of the lessons life has (kind of) taught me thus far. I was assigned the task of outlining such points, and though my response has deviated from the template of my assignment, I believe it compliments the fundamental goal of the project nonetheless.

Some malformed pieces of my life --

Humans know they are important. This is a fair assumption. Under the right frame of mind anything is important, though, for humans, our existence compels us. It is our nature to dwell on... the nature of things... and so we are different than animals; the word "different" is appropriately ambiguous in this case, as our separation from animals and the natural world is debatable, yet undeniably certain. No other creature on our planet dictates the fate of its neighbors, let alone are they aware of their global existence. No - only humans watch each other on TV. Only humans have invented buttons, whose sole purpose is to submit to the pressure of a finger. There is no Tom Cruise of the animal kingdom.

Humans believe the make-believe. As a result of dwelling on EVERYTHING, humans have convinced themselves of many fantasies. Such distortions of reality now occupy our "everyday" and no longer appear as fiction, but reality. One powerful example (though not worth exploring as the argument is too familiar) is Religion. To quickly comment: we believe in a creature called "God" who shares many mystical qualities with another creature fabricated also in the depths of human imagination - The Unicorn. Neither have been seen or heard from outside of fantastical literature, or the stories of crazed (albeit intoxicated in some fashion) human beings.

Instead, let's talk about the internet, which is something we can all agree on. The internet occupies no space. Normally, when a noun cannot be weighed by its mass it is called an "idea." For example, the effects of globalization can be weighed, and are tangible, but "globalization" itself is but a term describing a human effect which occupies no real space. So is the internet something humans have simultaneously spoken into "virtual" reality, whose only appearance occurs through screens that glimpse into the 2nd dimension - a dimension where human life is impossible. And the internet is only one example of how humans insist on bizarre retardations of reality without acknowledging the absurdity of it all.

What about, "THE ECONOMY." Somewhere exists a giant pool of numbers, swirling and menacing, that determines the fate of billions - even before sperm hits the egg. I didn't sign up for this money game, and I don't think it fair that I should be forced to participate.

Reason is our most triumphing evolution, yet we love to contradict it. We live to contradict it. As a result, not much of human life, at all, makes sense.

In short: I am confused. You should be too.
See "Paris Hilton"

Humans obsess.

Human relationships are complicated, and rarely genuine. To my knowledge, no other being searches for a companion with whom to spend 20, 30, 40, up to 85 years(!). I do believe that love (as opposed to only lust) exists among animals, though the humanly definition of the word has evolved along side us. Humans have adopted the idea of "true love" - a cosmically fated connection, unique and eternal. We spend most of our lives obsessing over the potential of this connection, searching, failing, and searching again. This quest, and our interaction with the conscious body of society, create a number of lies that confuse a person's identity. We cover ourselves with masks, and hope they attract a special someone. We don't realize, however, that even our inner consciousness, the personality inside our head who we recognize as our "self", is also masked. Humans lie to themselves, consciously and subconsciously convincing themselves for comfort and hope. We do this without realizing, everyone does, as a result of existing within a self-conscious society. More often than not these masks make genuine human connection difficult, and perhaps impossible. Still, it's beautiful (albeit frustrating) that we keep trying. If only we could relax the mind.
See Sigmund Freud, Luigi Pirandello and Brett Easton Ellis

Human communication does not communicate, this blog post as evidence. How could I possibly tell you what I feel?
See Reuben Abel

Art is human transcension. "Look what came out of my brain!" Art asks no forgiveness, only reflection. Art explains more than science. Art keeps me alive.

These lessons should have been more mundane. Perhaps I could have told you stories about relationships or other poignant moments of my life. If these lessons were more specific and less cerebral I'm sure you all could relate better. Life didn't raise me that way. Life raised me this way.

Humans are strange. Life is unexpected.

learning is for chumps

i too was approached to coalesce my 2008 experiences into a tell-all "list" of "what i learned." i've put it off for a while because, honestly, i was a bit frightened of putting this year in review. it was simultaneously fantastic and fucking terrible (though nowhere near as terrible as 2007. fuck 2007). i traveled the world then got a knee-buckling slap in the face by the utter failure that was the past 4 months of my life. 2008 was a pendulum, and if there was one thing i learned, it was anything we learn we can unlearn in an instant. all it takes is a catalyst.

but after reading jeff ze pen's treatise on what makes us human i finally felt ready to spill my own beans, if only in vague response to some of his generalizations that i don't necessarily agree with. mostly about love, because that's what i spend most of my waking (and unwaking, now that i think about it) time concerned with.

i feel that brevity will heighten the impact of most of these "facts" i've collected, so i'll keep them short unless elaboration is necessary for clarity's sake.

- learning to write with your non-dominant hand is one of the most difficult brain puzzles one can engage in.

- cats are just as good as people when you're alone.

- (this one's important) love is not sex and sex is not love.

i need to pause here. it seems obvious, or cliche, or perhaps just stupid and sappily romantic, but i cannot stress how true this is. and in relation to jeffrey's hypothesis on the so-called "genuineness" of human relationships, this can either prove him right or prove him wrong. we are hardly the only monogamous creatures in the animal kingdom, and our dance of destiny looking for "true love" is our evolved version of the mating dance, no longer externalized and silly (or is it?), but now metaphysical, emotional, subtle to the oxymoronic point of aggrandizement. love is now so ethereal that it's the Platonic ideal, non-existant except in literature and our own brainwaves. "no one can tell you you're in love, you just know it. through and through. balls to bones."

but back to the point, the mating rituals of animals (arguably) only fulfill that titular purpose, i.e. mating. what i'm arguing is that we may not be the only monogamous creatures in the animal kingdom, but we are one of the few (bonobos and select porpoises aside) that mate not for the literal sense of mating but for the sake of mating, the pleasure of it. and hence my point. sex is not love. love is not sex. the two are not inextricable, but we often seem to think they have to be. all kidding and philosophizing aside though, when they are inextricable (and they can be), it's pretty heavenly. which leads me to the next point on the list:

- love is real.

and to quote The Verve, love is noise, love is pain, love is these [sic] blues that i'm singing again. end quote. but love is good too, most of the time. this one is sort of up for debate, but this is what i learned this year.

-art: i've learned a lot about creativity and i still have nothing to show for it.

that's the title of my memoirs.

- learning is for chumps.

i suppose i should address my title. after spending a good 5 months abroad, i discovered something (and i coin a phrase from that movie that nearly ruined us all): learning's the problem. experiencing, now that's the solution. if you set out to learn something, odds are you'll be disappointed. sure, it's a matter of semantics, a minor adjustment of one's mind-set, but it makes all the difference in the world. i think we all knew this already, or i at least get that sense sometimes that we put too much emphasis on one thing, when we really should be focusing on this other, similar, but completely separate thing. it's kind of stupid, but i had to travel half-way around the world for it to be true to me.

- the world is in a constant state of flux, from the macro-sense to the micro-sense to the meta-sense.

one last pause for explanation. stasis is impossible. never strive for stasis, for status quo, for sterility. there is no end point, no center of the maze. we all fear this but in truth, the fear is what makes us accept it. without fear there is no change. keep searching, fellow maze-wanderers. we'll all find Nowhere together.

i suppose this could be considered Part One. i don't think i've even really touched on what i actually wanted to say when i finally did sit down and cope with what i experienced in the past 12 months. it's possible that i'll come back for Part Two. then again, i may just move on. hello 2009.

Parcheesi Fever!!!

Man's soul may well be a worthless cesspool of envy and hate (especially during the Holidays) but I am not here tonight to dally in the heavy in some vain attempt to make meaning out of the meaningless. I'll leave that to the pro's or Henry Miller, whichever you prefer. Rather, like a scared turtle I suck my heads, feet, and tongue-like turtle penis into my shell's cozy confines, laying prostrate at the alter of trivialities. 

What is friendship? When a man loves a woman? When a man seeks someone to eat Nachos with? The natural occurrence when one becomes sick to death of heaving a football into the air, watching it die in the horizon, before having to run after it them-self. 

I have a lot of friends. I like them. I hope they like me. Our company is mutually enjoyed in a drunken whirl of reveling laugh tracks. I watch Nico try to eat an Apple or predict Nick's actions a week before they come and rejoice in my good fortune of finding these people. So they are good people? Is that it? No. It must be more. It all out has to be. 

Well. If friendship has a definition I'd liktatink I stumbled upon it tonight in the form of Parcheesi--the once royal game of India played by kings with servants as pawns, and now a cash cow for the good people at Parker Brothers. 

I settled in a margarita, Nick, and his A-OK lady for a game. I am not the strategic sort but managed a blockade early in the game. As I moved my two red pawns together I checked the faces of my counterparts and denoted a certain wariness in his eyes. In this moment, this flicker of shared understanding, we both knew how the game would unfold. Our friendly fireplace game would become...THE WORST GAME OF PARCHEESI EVER PLAYED! 

I kept my blockade up for fifteen minutes. The game screeched to a halt and between my Belichekian ruthlessness and Nick's commandeering of Jillian's pieces we managed to stalemate the game for fifteen minutes. When we rolled the die, regardless of outcome, we'd have to say "pass". 

It was a beautiful thing. One Nick will forever be upset about. 

What I've Learned...

Like the rest of the world, I am slowly being weened off the influence of Print Media, though it's been a great friend so far. It's offered legitimacy and made every Thursday (Wednesday since moving to California) as "Sports Illustrated Day". Even still, it is twittered to shreds, day by day by nonstop onslaughts of information, rumors, and speculation that cloud the mind with data, rendering ink stained hands nearly a relic.  A sterling exception to this rule is Esquire Magazine, specifically Esquire Magazine's "What I've Learned" issue. In this issue--published every December,   people from various fields tell their lessons in unadultered, bullet point format. Over the past three years, these issues have given me more than any book, idea, or poet. Reading the abbreviated wisdom of Muhammad Ali does wonders to a man. There isn't a day that passes where I don't think about Muhammad Ali's lesson of "what you are thinking about, you are becoming". I read this passage the day, sat down and finished the first draft of my novel. It rung through my head as I finished the second draft. I will hear it numerous times as I inch nearer and nearer to completion of my ultimate, be all, end all goal of writing a good novel that represents my soul, before moving on to the next ultimate be all end all goal. 

Joel Walkowski, 22, is a recent college graduate, comedian, and writer from Detroit, Michigan. 

Never pursue a woman unless you can talk to her like you talk to your best friend. Short of that, you'll try too hard and embarrass all parties. If this happens, you can turn it into an essay and friendship but little else. If you find, at a later date, that you're able to talk to her like a great friend: embrace the friendship. 

If you want to write, some nights will easy, some nights will be hard. If you go at each night with this singular purpose, you'll notice that the nights you don't care are when you do your best work. In this regards, everything in life can be traced back to Sports. If you go all out, balls deep with effort, you'll over play and undermine your abilities with extra effort. Let the game come to you and you'll control it all. 

This doesn't apply if you play Linebacker, Defensive Line, or want to direct a feature film.

Also, it's quite hard to admit when you don't have your "A" Game. 

If life gets hard, pretend you're someone else for a little while. The power of pretending to be a Long Island Housewife or Mother of Cactuses has pushed the restart button for me many times. 

Four or Maybe Six Hours a week you will be possessed by a singular purpose, a feeling you'll cling to as your reason for being. There are two ways to take this. You can either feel bad because it doesn't take a stronger hold or work to make it a bigger part of your life. There is only one approach that makes life worth living...

Eat good meals daily, even if they have to be fried multiple times. The smile  is worth the smile. 

Exercise and inspiration make life feel equally good but you can only force one of them. A game of tackle football feels much better than several scotches. 

If someone grants you the gift of their conversation, you owe it to them to give everything in return. 

Armed with a proper frame of reference, all life's lessons can be gleaned from a single NBA Playoff game. 

As far as I know the best feelings in the world are: 1) Being surrounded by a universe formed in friendship 2) Completing a large scale project 3) Seeing your team win a championship 4) Being in love. These are in no particular order, no should they be. 

Money doesn't matter. Spend it. Even if you don't have it. If you're worrying about it they've got you. 

If I can't have a decent conversation with someone they earn my immediate distrust and scorn. I believe the same beliefs are hoisted upon me. That's how it goes. Sometimes you meet, often times you judge, but don't forget that you're getting the same treatment from them. 

If a group of people give the gift of their attention, you better do something damned good with it. Think of the time spent awash in your presence. You'd be hurting the world if you didn't go all out to inform, enlighten, or entertain. I think of this every time I have a group conversation. Some hate me for my aggrandizing ways but those who understand, those who love me, appreciate these efforts. Because of this I know we'll be friends forever. 

Find a good friend. Find another good friend. Keep finding. Try your best to build everyone up and they'll return the favor. Keep it up and before you know it: voila! You're surrounded by a framework of caring, like-minded people. That's what it's all about isn't it. 

Sometimes you need to act crazy to feel sane. If I've ever picked you up at a party, sprinted 100 yards with ya'll over my shoulder before collapsing in an asthmatic heap, this is the reason. 

Back when I was 17, I took on a large goal I had no business achieving. By some cosmic fluke I achieved it. Since then, I haven't felt at home unless I was combatting every element on the way to some place greater. In short, certain moments define you. Don't ignore these moments. They pave the way. 

Good friends hate you sometimes. Great friends love you even though they hate you. If you're a good friend, you'll listen and shape the fuck up. If you're a great friend, you'll let them set your hair on fire because you need the ass kicking. 

Never let a woman ruin a friendship. You can't control a woman but you can control acting like a stubborn douche. 

Several works will strike you as pure genius as young man or woman. You'll grow up, holding these close to your heart, but don't forget to revisit. Going back allows you to understand why you thought they were genius to begin with. 

If you can't get a song out of your head, listen to it over and over again until it becomes part of your soul. 

Chinese History and Hydrologic Cycles are important as you make them. 

Any meal made by Mom is the best one I've ever had. 

You never have enough socks. 

Late night suits me. it ruins my days, casting me as a zombie, but these lonesome hours provide access to a part of me that would otherwise lay dormant and aloof. No wonder I turn to these hours to do what I do. Days are reserved for vice, sports, and hobbies. Nighttime is when serious soul searching comes. 

On a final lesson, perhaps this formal outlet isn't the best way for me to illustrate What I've Learned. Maybe a convo will suffice. 

An excerpt from tonight: 

 me:  what's going? Thanks for watching Goals btw. Do people think I won't be returning?

Bryan:  who said you wont be?

me:  thats just the feeling I'm picking up. everyone's been saying "goodbye"

 Bryan:  everyones saying goodbye to everyone plus youve made it clear you wont be back for like 2 months

 me:  yeah

 Bryan:  a month and a half

 me:  I hope so. it's just been kinda cryptic and surreal

 Bryan:  and early in the semester you were all about letting the wind taking you where it may be and acting like you never wanted to step on los angeles soil again. i mean you told me repeatedly you had no intention of returning. im sure you told other people the same. so while i feel you will be back and dont really doubt that i think that might be fueling most peoples fatalistic goodbyes

 me:  yeah, it's fueled by my own uncertainty

 Bryan:  id think that the people who know you best believe you will be returning probably although you gotta get over the uncertainty its part of the bargain you know the people who know exactly what they want to do to the t are boring so uncertainty is something we deal with

 me:  yeah

 Bryan:  and shouldnt be feared

 me:  I've just caught the bug for fiction writing and figure I'd be selling myself short if I didn't do it until I get good but that's a lame reason for anything

 Bryan:  also one that means youll be writing forever (which i fully endorse)

 me:  I sort of need to. nothing settles me like this shit

 Bryan:  as the day you feel you're good at something you should  stop i mean we can produce good but when we think were good were satisfied and fuck that

 me:  and while this novel ain't great it sure is telling of some future good

 Bryan:  one must hope certainty is sort of a mythical concept

 me:  and future good is the only reason to keep running

 Bryan:  (id say youre on the right path though)

 me:  thanks. I'm trying. More than anyone but intimates realize.

 Bryan:  i think people get fooled by your flippancy

 me:  yeah. for sure

 Bryan:  you make so many things seem inconsequential. stop that shit. you obviously care.

 me:  everyone thinks I'm some dumb ass Crispin Glover weirdo. I know I do. but that's my natural reaction

 Bryan:  i do not think of you as crispin glover

 me:  I've been a self promoter and never want to be one of those film school grandstanders again

 Bryan:  you're more mickey rourke

 me:  that's good I guess

 Bryan:  yeah (p.s. letting people know you care is not self promotion)

 me:  but I'm not gonna waste my efforts to do such a thing. It sort of comes out that I act like an ass sometimes. Though I really enjoyed spinning fancy talk last night

 Bryan:  well. thats not exactly what i mean, what i mean is this: nick, me, your mom we know this means a lot to you because you tell us. you dont just make pronouncements of want to be a great writer. you tell us that you like to write. that its important to you and that sometimes its hard but to others

 me:  I'm really proud that I come off that way. Really proud.

 Bryan:  youre like "that shit.  that don't mean much.  i do it when i'm not sleeping.  and usually drunk!  but i'm good at it and im going to keep doing it because im good at it" now while i dont think you need to open yourself up to everyone, it probably wouldnt hurt to act like this is the most effortless thing ever

 me:  yeah. for sure

 Bryan:  you would not be as good as you are if you didnt care

 me:  I care so much, so fucking much, and you know that. It's on my mind every second of every day and if I opened myself past the point of aloofness, people would figure me out as just another over ambitious hack and while that's good, I'd like to have a sort of playful carefree fireball standing with those that don't know me  well...though I can't disregard how many times I've had the same conversation you're starting with myself. You're a really great friend, Bryan

 Bryan:  i think you get too caught up in the fireball part. thank you. i consider you a good one myself... i guess what im saying, which i promise is not a criticism, but an attempt to explain the perception that people feel they'll never see you again

 me:  yeah. I know what I want to do, which is write, but don't really know how to go about it...but that's what the rest of this shit life is for

 Bryan:  yeah. so stop being afraid of not knowing exactly what you want to do. its par for the course. i dont know what i want to do but i do know i want to write so im heading off on the journalism course. i like this shit but i dont think its who i am. itll be part of who i am but it will not be the only thing ill ever do

 me:  Like Baron Davis' Grandma said "Take that ball away and who are you?"

 Bryan:  yeah my concern is that i get to write and you know what a lot of my favorite writers did reportage or criticism. they wrote. because thats what bonds us. we love to write. we need to write. the final outlet will vary. apparently im into verbosity tonight. simply put: i want to write. don't know what yet. but i have some ideas so im starting to check them off the list until i find the one i want

 me:  Do it I have so many more novel ideas now I think I'll put off getting a real job til this one is as good as it can be. though it'll never be perfect, it's me.

 Bryan:  thats important. alright playa. i gots work int he morning and a 1500 word essay on myself to write so im going to catch some sleep, wake up early and try to write a draft. catch you soon. on a final note, i expect to see you come february but i wont lie id be bummed if you dont come back im not intending on that happening though. night killa...what i know will be up as soon as i finish this essay

 me:  AWESOME. I'm doing mine now

 Bryan:  awesome

 me:  I'll be back for you, Nick, Jeff, Brock,  Nico, Mc, & the rest of 'em. the cousins and brothers I never had

 Bryan:  were a pretty special lot. lets take advantage of that and show we are to the world. come back for the club meetings

 me:  such is the "New" Newhindenburg

Your Biological Clock

Sundays are a big stupid mountain covered in hair. They are a room temperature Big Mac you eat when too drunk to do anything else. Sundays are that bit hair you forget to shave but friends always notice, the smell of burnt hair at a baby shower, the screech of flatulence during religious ceremonies. You took Sunday to see Booker T and the MG's and Sunday heckled, not Booker T lead singer, but Booker T Civil Rights Activist.  They come over, already buzzed, and drink your last beer. They're the abscesses forming on your rear. They give noogies, punt the ball during games of catch, and know far too much about sabermetrics and not enough about team chemistry. Sunday's forget to DVR your favorite television shows and get all pissed off when you get all pissed off. "WELL YOU WATCH TOO MUCH TV ANYWAY" Sunday says before kicking you off to watch reruns of M*A*S*H, you'll peek in the window as you fly your kite and Sunday won't be laughing. That serious sabbath doesn't enjoy anything. 

I have two fingers, at all times, located on my emotional pulse. 1/7 of the week, my pulse turns cold and aloof--I wonder if my heart could be having a stroke or worse yet--if it could have packed it's bags and jumped from my chest--exploring the world for a more qualified/more blue-eyed/man/manboy/Buck Angel. 

On Sunday's the sun shines but its always raining. Today my hair caught on fire, singing my scalp, making it all but impossible to wear festive winter hats. It came as no surprise, It was Sunday. Feelin' kind of Sunday? I should've known from the axe in your hand. 

Days I Would Rather Have Instead of A Day Of Rest 

1. Caveman Day- You go about your day in normal fashion but grunt instead of talk and throw rocks at shiny things. They confuse you. 
2. Screaming Day- Everyone goes onto their sidewalk and yells at each other for two hours straight. After that, with stress dissipated, we'll have pancake breakfast and get to know each other...finally. 
3. Sit in A Refrigerator Box Filled With Icy Hot Day- This one's sort of self-explanatory. 
4. Finger Painting Day- Ditto. 
5. Refluxive Compository Intestinal Malignance Awareness  Day- Ditto Again. This shit's explaining itself. 
6. Put A Finger Somewhere You've Never Put A Finger Before- A day where we all try our best not to make obvious jokes. 

Anything would be better than this line of Sunday's, devoid of jaunty piano music and riddled with the incumbent's weeks pressures. 

"It's December 14th! I HAVE TO GET ON A PLANE IN 3 DAYS!" 

Maybe this day is cursed for a Non-Christian. Then again, maybe it'd be different if your football team could win a fucking game. Nah... This day plain blows. 

needles

as i drink a scotch and eat a bowl of cheerios i figure i should introduce myself. but i already have, i suppose, as i've already contributed to this space without acknowledging that it just might confuse the hell out of everybody. so i skipped a step. sue me.

i don't necessarily know what i'm going to be when i grow up (if i haven't grown up already), but i have some options. those options include longshoreman, "writer," unemployed, and most recently, dj. the needles i refer to aren't the bad kind, the kind that give everybody either the willies or the DTs, but the kind that bring sweet sweet music to your ears.

i had a revelation yesterday: vinyl ain't that great. sure it's a portal to another time, where music wasn't as easy to get as a quick keystroke and a few minutes of patience as your newest obsession downloads, where you can get an album a full six weeks before the artist (or more likely, the label) intended you to. back when hours were spend flipping through bins in a musty record (record. vinyl's the reason that word has meaning) store, praying you get lucky and finally find that 12" that's been eluding you for a good month, but just has to show up sometime. that was a great time, one that i wasn't even alive for, but i can still appreciate. but the real question: does it sound better?

everyone's answer is yes. i always said yes. until i was asked if anyone i knew had a cassette deck. we all have cassettes collecting dust from the early 90s, when we bought MC Hammer, the Space Jam soundtrack, and every edition of Jock Jams we could get our hands on, and played those cassettes until they wore right through and we had to get another one. but where are they now? not being played, that's for sure. but if the history of vinyl says anything about music, it's that the medium is influenced both in the artistic sense and the physical sense. there's a certain impersonality to clicking a wheel on an ipod and playing that b-side it took you 12 seconds to find on a blog somewhere, compared to the relative "warmness" of slipping a record out of its sleeve, blowing off the dust and setting the needle just so, the familiar crackle of the blank space before the album kicks in reassuring you that you've at least done something right. there's just no challenge. and maybe that's what we're clinging to. there's still, even now, perhaps even intensified in the instant gratification age, a sense of the hipster one-upmanship of finding that track, bootleg, remix that nobody else has (yet). but imagine a time when search engines didn't exist, where album leaks were actually a big deal, not just expected collateral damage.

so what is it i'm trying to say? vinyl gets a wrap it doesn't necessarily deserve. it sounds good, sure, with the right speakers, but so does anything else. the vinyl effect can even be recreated in a studio these days. basically, who's to say that in 30 years the future-hipsters won't be collecting cassettes, making literal "mix-tapes" in an effort to be retro, cool, hip, ironically "cutting-edge." "man, music just doesn't sound like it used to," the kids'll say, "cassettes just sound better than having it beamed into your head" (which is what my limited imagination tells me is how music will be received in the future). but then everything changed for me.

james murphy, of lcd soundsystem extraordinaire, still spins the vinyl every now and then, and i had the privilege of standing 30 inches away from him as he did tonight. watching the man work, the pure physicality involved, sans computers, sequencers, or anything that might make it slightly less "real," made me appreciate the format of vinyl in a way i hadn't before. it wasn't the sound (which was pounding, in a good way), it was the performance. but as mr. murphy himself has said, purposefully oxymoronic, "i hear you're buying a synthesizer, and an arpeggiator, and throwing your computer out the window, because you want to make something 'real'. you wanna make a Yaz record." the quotes around 'real' are mine, but i imagine that's what he intended. sure, spinning is still technology, but it ain't the easy kind of technology. and that somehow makes it all better.

vinyl's not bad. it's really great actually. but the hype it gets just might come from that hipster ethos, the thought that if i like something that everybody else sorta hates, or at least writes off or has forgotten about, and i stick to my guns, i just might appear ironically avant-garde. and avant-garde is cool, especially when it's ironic. all i know is i danced till my legs wanted to die tonight. it probably wasn't the vinyl that made me do it, more like the disco grooves that are currently making my ears ring as i finish up my scotch and get ready to pass out. but i had a great fucking time nonetheless.

so that's me. nice to meet ya. (again)

--mc-danced-out.

Insomnia and the Woman Lying Next to Me

Once again, I am gripped by an irrational fear. A dread of falling asleep for fear that tomorrow will be just like today. A bad day. Lying awake in the dark, I look at her sleeping, docile, vulnerable. Her own irrational fears have a much different effect on her. This morning, she told me of the conversations in her head, imaginary exchanges where she plays both sides of the board, as a chess game. Endlessly she goes back and forth between two personae, extrapolating all possible event chains in a hypothetical to the point where she's telling the imaginary person about the conversations she has in her head with an imaginary person, and in the end she's only talking to herself. But at least she can sleep.

These unwaking hours are the darkest part of the woods of the mind--the easiest place to get lost in thought, paralyzed by the fear of going any further, but similarly crippled by the fear of staying in one place for too long. And thus we go in circles. I think I'm thinking to myself, but someone must be listening, right? I take comfort in the possibility that my thoughts translate into her dreams, giving her the peace of mind in sleep that I myself seek in consciousness. She breathes softly, short little breaths that can be described as either feminine or feline. Even the curve of her body, the way her hands are balled up in front of her gentle face, suggest a cat-like influence. I wonder if that means men are like dogs, splayed out with little regard for the space they occupy, begging for a touch, a glance, a thought. A soft purr from deep within her only confirms my suspicions. Petting her doesn't seem like such a bad idea, but I refrain. A social faux-pas perhaps, petting those who don't know they're an object that begs to petted.

From dogs and cats I wander to the next tree in the forest and I worry: Are we really that different? Dogs and cats? Men and women as two different species, a concept that frightens me to the point of shivers, that the deepest desire can never be truly fulfilled. If we are so inherently different, is it possible to share a soul? The ceiling's glaring indifference seems the appropriate response, the blue glow of the the alarm clock digits casting tiny shadows that reveal the texture of the space, defining the little bumps so sharply I can only conclude that separation is inevitable. No two things can become one. But a soft brush of her hand as she stirs in her sleep reassures me that I'm mistaken. I sigh.

It's useless to fight it, insomnia. One can only hope for the end. Eventually the circles of thought will become so wide (or so tight?) that one cannot help but abandon all hope, and in that resignation to one's prison, one is set free. The last test of the boastful man. Insomnia takes you down a peg. You are nothing without me, says the body to the mind, and the mind responds in kind.

The irrational fear is rooted in a broader tendency to overthink. The big picture is a scary thing to stare at, and I take this fact to heart as the wind howls and makes the room rattle. It's a good night to sleep. But the big picture only enables my avoidance. Am I a big picture person or am I just refusing to acknowledge the pit in my stomach, the lump in my throat, the sense of dread I feel every morning when she gently wakes me for a cup of coffee before my morning commute? Again, cyclically, I return to her. If only I could sleep as she does--mouth agape but breathing through the nose, eyelids flickering with the projections of dreams, withdrawn into a curtained room separated from the light by only a thin but resilient sheath. I consider the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand but I know how much she hates it when I smoke in bed. She's never said anything but, instinctively, I can feel her tension when the blankets bear that stale sour smell, and this small, involuntary bit of fact curbs my enthusiasm for tobacco. I do it for her. Isn't it funny how much of our own happiness revolves around other people's?

I forget sometimes. Nights like these are necessary. When she lies next to me in the darkness, whether facing away from me--the little spoon--or towards me--her small fists close to her chin, waiting for me to place my face close to hers so she can reposition her hands in the usual nooks of my torso like so many bony puzzle pieces--and I close my eyes, I no longer see the dim outline of her profile. As soon as my lids touch the room is set afire, and she is the sole source of light--in the same position as when my eyes are open but radiant and beautiful, resplendent in a way that sunlight could never recreate. I feel her move and the flaming angel in my third eye moves with her. It happens only on nights like these; these windy, cold, sleepless nights; this permeation past my only line of defense from things I see or don't see. She shines like the moon in my imagination, ever present, even in the supine, naked moment between wakefulness and sleep, if sleep ever comes. This tiniest moment in the day is when she is brightest, whether facing away from me, legs bent slightly at the knees, creating a space for me--the big spoon--to fit, or towards me, eyes closed but anticipating my head on the pillow next to hers, face to face, in case in the course of the night one of us should stir and wake the other, that we might share a brief meeting of the lips. It is no wonder then that I never sleep facing away from her. The shining light in my third eye could never keep me from sleeping.

I kiss her forehead, and she stirs. She turns as I lie next to her. A moment passes and I feel a reciprocatory kiss, and I smile.

98774 Words or "Mama I'm A Man Now"

At the summit of my education I return to kindergarten, wistfully recounting suspensions past, and grabbing the simplest of lessons: It's good to share. 

Over the course of young Hindenburg's run this blog has undergone many facelifts. Starting under the thesis of examining the amazing it has slowly turned into my personal journal for psychoanalysis. This isn't a bad thing. However, times change and ol' Hindy's got to get with them. The sharing has begun with Jeff (who's putting me to shame) and hopefully continue. Who knows? We might even find Archibald! Last I heard, he's been weaseling Isla Fisher away from Sascha Baron-Cohen. You minx you! No offense Minx. 

Let's Evolve.

***** 

If I get manage my shit together, but two finals remain in my illustrious University Career. As I look back, there are no regrets, all in all I think I've achieved the entire gamut of collegiate life. Henry Ford Community College helped me in this a great deal. Driving into an overpacked parking lot, running to class as slush filled my sockless shoes to attend lecture taught by a bald transsexual man does great things to a boy. 

My first class was an an Intro to Sociology taught by a man with the email "socioking@_____.com". He stammered through lecture, struggling to keep his bi-focals fixed on his face, while ignoring the dwindling numbers in his class. We started as a group of 26 and ended as 6, me and 5 Islamic Women. They were always the best students. My first assignment was a project on how changing times were reflecting in logos. I toiled for days to perfect my perfect analysis of the NBC Peacock. Armed with a 20 page Kinko's fresh document, I proudly flipped through my efforts. Then a classmate nudged me. "Hey man, I gotta go. Will you turn in my assignment for me?" 

"Sure." 

He handed me his assignment--a half page of loose leaf paper describing the Detroit Pistons 2004 championship victory that spelled "Chauncey Billups" as "Billips". It's shameful to think of me on a high horse at such a pitiful juncture, but I was. I vowed never to be the sort of student he was. 

Four years later, I routinely skip class to nap in the park or lay eggs for Nick's movies. I think of this boy often, wondering where he is, pouring out sips of 40 in tribute to his lackadaisical nature. Doing a poor job is fine if the job warrants it. How foolish was I to toil on nothingness. Take care of yourself, give in to the world, but be careful where you plant those seeds. Tempted by other gardens and their seemingly fruitful soils, unfitting actions boast a great temptation. 

"Ooooh being a biologist would be fun! There are ANIMALS INVOLVED" 

If anything, I've managed not to be an idiot about where I laid my loyalties like so many of Fenkel's eggs. A few months ago, living with Matt & Ross under newly wed bliss, I sat on Nico's roof for hours wondering a life dedicated to love would be? 

I don't know what that is but I know it's possible. Working on a singular task for an extended period of time, certain patterns become palpable. What makes you happy? What hours and habits are most conducive to success? What allows the freedom of mind and flitty fervor of spirit enabling long smiling walks in the California sun? I DON'T KNOW THESE ANSWERS, but realizing that such questions exist is a very important step. 

 Aside from girls, life is too serious to fret over. Life is its own babysitter. 

These are the thoughts of a man who rarely leaves the house except to eat Mexican food. 

Recently, I rattled myself in an imbroglio over some holes in some walls. I use the plurals because this was the night I pretended to be Troy Polamalu, the tasmanian devil and father of Paisos himself. All was my tackling dummy, all was joyful. 

This mindset wasn't shared by others. Realizing I was wrong in the aloof approach to fixing my problem, I begged forgiveness, promising to fix the holes in the walls. This was a high priority for me, even garnering a number 1 spot on my "to-do" list from November 15th. Everyday it weighed on me. I'd walk to the hardware store, pick up the dry wall, and hear a quiet voice whispering "Not yet. The world likes you. It could help you." 

The world, again, came through. George, a handyman I fostered a great relationship with in previous rentals, saw the holes on a routine inspection and offered to fix them. He did. On the way home from my beloved's home, toting a mattress on my back like some deranged production of the stations of the cross, I crossed George. 

Though my neck stiffened I couldn't put down the mattress because I promised myself I wouldn't. 

I said hello to George and thanked him for fixing the holes. He smiled and said "Makes sense it was you. Made me laugh." 

I don't know where I'm going with this. I'm procrastinating as I write this and I'm sure Brock will scoff. Offering my irresponsibility as a life lesson is faulty logic, especially from a grad. 

Life's always looming, towering above, making us feel like scared scattered mice. Alone and cheese chasing. I guess I'm at the ultimate juncture for that. The world beckons, I'm conditioned to answer the question of "What's Next?", but more than anything it's important not to worry. To let go and let the world take care of me. 

Smile. Chase your dreams. Do your best to love. Try your damnedest to understand. 

If I do these I'll be just fine. Homeless, but dandy underneath it all. 

****

Finishing up early Wednesday morning, I expected a cathartic explosion and champagne baths to follow. This didn't happen. In the wake of something I'd always thought impossible, I didn't feel like an achiever, I felt like a human. I did what I felt like and nothing more. Feeling quiet and quite calm, I laid my eyes to the ceiling and explored the feeling of complete understanding. 

**** 

No more jock jams!

A New, Softer Mindset

Barack Obama! That's right, we're about to have our first black president! What better time to consider new ideas? Different perspectives your mind wouldn't previously allow? A new way of life! What better time to say "out with the old, and in with the new!"??? So, world...

IT'S TIME THE PILLOW BECAME THE #1 INVENTION.

Honestly, the wheel has enjoyed a pretty respectable incumbency. No disrespect! Afterall - who could doubt the wheel? As far as inventions go, you'd be a fool to argue against it...

The Earth as we know it would not exist. Our executives wouldn't talk to each other from towers billowing hundreds of feet above the Earth's surface, casting shadows over cities breathing hard. Those men and their cell phones wouldn't speak via signals, to a satelite, floating even higher out, blending in with the stars in the sky, which, then, couldn't gaze back at us from time to time, showing us a reflection of ourselves from God's point-of-view.

Life would be simpler. Life might be comfortable.

Since there's no erasing an invention, it'd be useless to go on about a world without the wheel. Instead, let's all agree on the easier task of naming a new favorite. The pillow. Everyone loves 'em, why not? Besides, the potential benefits of such a paradigm shift are enough to reclaim souls. Think about it...

How much time do you spend with your pillow? Do ever sleep on a wheel? How many wheels have been covered in layers of your drool (or other bodily substances, but that's my next point...)?! There's no doubt that we'd all be much grumpier people without such overlooked comforts. Sure, we've probably always found a way to be comfortable, from the beginning of "human", maybe before, but the pillow means more than comfort. Cheers to the first man that decided to package soft.

Of the times you've been lucky to have sex in a comfortable place, how often were pillows responsible? Babies. Think about it.

But besides the obvious reasons, doesn't it say something: to place an object that cradles our minds delicately above another which has evolved, with too many examples, into our most unforgiveable creations? Yes, it shouldn't be ignored that without the wheel the production of pillows would plummit (phenomenally)! That's boring, and beside the point. Let's all appreciate the idea of a comfortable mind. For once, let's revere principal over practicality. Dreams over productivity.

My last and most poignant argument: a website of the ten funniest pillows. A google search for funny wheels yields disappointing results.

Ultimately, it's painfully true that this blog wouldn't exist without things that roll. You'd have to come over if we wanted to catch up.

I hope you'll consider my ideas. It'd really be a shame to go on in such anxious complacency - they say we're heading into a new era!

Sleep well,

Jeff the Pen

Here and Nowhere: An Introduction

To Whom It May Concern:

I am a figment of your imagination. I don’t actually exist (yet) and that is my business here, at The New Hindenburg. I mean not to exist. At least not for some time.

Instead, I’d prefer you think of me as a kind of dark matter. You know, that stuff out in space that we have no means of detecting, but that we suppose exists. We suppose it exists because we’ve the fanciest of technologies, whose brains are far superior and inferior to ours all at the same time, and we trust these god-like machines to make our suppositions for us. With a bit of reason and a dash of silicon, the invisible, unreachable, most logic defying ideas change history. Though we have no evidence of actual dark matter, its supposed existence is simply enough.

But you shouldn’t think I have low self-esteem – you’d be missing the point. Sure, most people like to exist. Some people might even give you a sock to the face for you telling them how little they exist. It’s obviously a matter of opinion. Personally, I would return that sock to the face for being forced to claim outright ownership of my space and time. Standing in front of you, you might think you see me, but you do not. I am made of innumerable illusions caused by our grand universe, and by cute little synapses firing off inside your brain. Neither of these tell the truth, which barely exists in itself. No, I’m confident and content in my non-existence. In fact, I'm proud of it. Existence is stability, among too many other nouns to list here. Without existence we’d have no identity. This is the point.

Your suppositions are enough for the time being. Though you will feel my presence, you will never know me. There is beauty, not indifference, in this disconnection.

So begins my journey at the New Hindenburg. I beg you bear with me in my non-existences.
Thanks to Joel for encouraging me to take part in the ongoing discoveries of this blog.

Jeff the Pen

Bobbin & Me

First off, some notes. 

1) Welcome Jeff LaPenna to the blog. If you are one of our Malaysian readers, I'm sure you will find him to your liking. Jeff is perfect for Asia. 

2) I am about to graduate from College, a top 25 University no less, this is an extraordinary achievement and one that could have easily died due to my high school follies. However, I attacked CC with the ardent gusto of a man possessed, passing this gift off to my my best friends. As such, I can walk out my bedroom and see my two best friends from high school. Still together after all these years. As it stands I don;t know if I'll ever be able to grow uop. The prospect of not sharing a room with Nick terrifies me. However, I can't think of a grander achievement. 

3) I am about to finish the novel. Since I was able to read adult books, I considered the prospect of writing a book the greatest of all achievements. I'm about to get there. It might be good, it might not be, but FUCK IT ALL I'VE WRITTEN A NOVEL. The letters stemming from this process are the reward rather than the work. If you don't know and bother to read this, you soon will... 

Of the past year...

It's been amazing, life affirming. Finally, I realize that the life I want to live is attainable. Of course, this is not embarked upon alone. I am aided by the presence and all consuming love of all my friends. 

To Nick, Jeff, Bryan, Brock, Nico, Hoopster, Mucci, Dan, Appu, Jamster, Heidi, Mac-Rally, Matt, Ross, the Pauls, and all others: You've made me feel like a superstar. Embraced me at my highest heights, lifted me from my lowest lows. A plethora of gifts have been bestowed upon this past year but every one of them stems from gifts abided by your friendship. As I go forth, foraying into manhood, I know that, ultimately, ya'll are behind every triumph. I'm honored simply to know all of you and can;t wait to express my feelings in a more succinct form. 

The past year might have been the best day of my life and I can only sum it up in the following format. 

Joshua Tree:

Life is better, more vibrant, and more fulfilling than I ever thought possible, 

Embarking with Jeff, Matt, Brock, and a stranger, I discover my maternal instinct as I mother a Cactus. I fall in love with feeling so free. On the way home, Matt lets me hear my anthem. Hearing this I come to a conclusion: I am meant to write and write I shall. I become aware of something called the Great Narrative, alongside the Beautiful Little Life and the General malaise, this becomes a defining concept of my life. I look for it everywhere. 

Also: 

Matt is a painting. 

Things are melty. 

Jeff is a saint. 

Brock is a gypsy. 

Heidi is a witch. 

Nick doesn't know how to respond to certain things. 

Jeff shows me the Tenori-On. 

310 After Party

Dressed in a suit and hat you guys denote me the Mayor. I feel like the mayor, decrying legislation left and right to eager denizens. Anyone can be anything.  I watch the world unfold with new aplomb. Everything is so striking and new. You honor me. I feel your love. I want to be friends forever, even if some people scare me. 

Also: 

There is a very dramatic fart. 

I discover inspiration in the form of fluting.

We meet Orig. He loves to play Jigglyball because all Origs love playing Jigglyball. 

Playground

Climbing rocks is fun. Some sights are so good the sheer memory will make every thing that follows feel good. I am not the man that Nico is. He is a warrior. I am not. I am discontent and always looking for a challenge. I walk the barren Santa Barbara streets looking for something and find a story. I write that story over the next two days. It is a very good story. 

Also: 

Giving Ross a sandwich is very important. 

The Unitard is bliss. 

Ruined hats can be funny. 

The world and space are one. 

These guys are legit. 

Sundance: 

I watch amazing exhibits of art, science, and film mixed into one. I am wowed as wood takes on a cinematic form. This astounds me. There are pants made of movies, though I don't know how to understand. A visual artist relates cults to Britney though I don't entirely understand.  

I walk. Walk walk walk walk walk through the cold, sleet, and snow. A fire place awaits, rewarding us for our trials. I reward the fireplace with rhythmic dancing before coming to the conclusion that I am a dumb greedy child and that's ok. 

Also... 

To BE CONTINUED!!!!!!!!!

Behold The Pelican

To my brothers in East Lansing, young G-Men loving Jewish home boys, and the man himself... This one goes out to Plaxico Burress. How rare is the gesture that inspires sympathy, disgust, and gratitude. News is still leaking out but initial reports are that you shot yourself in an injured right leg, already a spot of injury. If you cite "medicinal purposes" as the reason for your gun shot I promise to fly to New York City and award you the Gold Medal of Comedy. Don't write off my offer, Eugene Levy will be presiding over the ceremonies. If the stars align, bringing me for a week long stay to East Lansing, I have half a mind to produce a sitcom centered around the zany antics of Plaxico Burress and Charles Rogers. Michigan State Wide Receivers: formed in tragic mold and deserving of a Tennessee Williams two act. Would they be willing to settle for a buddy comedy? I promise a motorcycle with a sidecar. 

Consider the Pelican. 

Man's domain is the Earth. We traverse the sky, explore the sea, but such endeavors are done with the feebleness of a toddler wearing training wheels far too long. In wind or water, we foray forth in little manifestations of land. A boat and a plane do not capture the essence of these environs, they merely preserve land so it might be brought to such places. There are three phases to the Earth. With all human ingenuity, we will never master anything outside of our own domain. We don't belong in these places and our presence, unnatural and forced, shoddily imitates the birds and fish, mocking the planet. 

Thinking about things like this makes me think that humans are really very silly. 

I came to think of this yesterday morning when Andrew McNally and I were living a poem or maybe a short story about the Young and Hungry Portuguese. 

Two young men ride bicycles through a darkened city, peddling peddling forever peddling as civilization slowly wanes and land begins to sink; slowly giving way to the Ocean. They take off their shirts, wade into the waves, and find a baseball in the tide. The play catch as fog forms all around them. 

I collapsed upon the beach, turning my eyes towards the glittery horizon. In the distance, I saw a black dot dizzily flitting about above me. Thinking this was some sort of strange visual phenomenon,  I was intrigued following the black dot as it got closer and came into full form, revealing itself to be a Pelican. The Pelican came to rest upon the waves for a moment before sashaying forth in a sudden burst of natural I'm hungry instincts. It shot into the sky, swooped down and scooped a helpless fish in its malformed mouth, inextricably shaped for exactly such a purpose. The Pelican arced above me, coming to rest behind me on the shore, feasting on the fruits of versatility. At precisely this moment, a plane took off from the nearby LAX Airport, utilizing hundreds of years of ingenuity, sixty million dollars, and jet thrusters to soar far over the Pelican and into the far off Pacific. 

Maybe it was headed to China. Maybe to the Philippines. I usually love looking up and wondering where a plane was headed but I didn't now. Being human suddenly seemed like such a let down. 

I could easily delve into semantics and scientific subsets, but for generality's sake there are three phases to the planet. The ground, the water, and the sky.  Many creatures possess the ability to interact with all three but few (if any) marry the world together like the Sea Bird. Their abilities leave them ill-suited for any particular place, but the coalescence of all three elements allows their true nature, and thus beauty to display itself. As man, all endeavors are limited to terrestrial dealings.  

Sitting in the sand in a suddenly finite universe, painfully aware of my own small stature, my thoughts turned to Jennifer Lopez. J-lo or "Jenny for the Block" is probably one of the most powerful women on the planet with universes of Bronx cheering chicanas turning on her fingertips. (Note: This is meant as literal as there are certainly some people who find J-Lo's nails very important). For all of J-Lo's merits and influence, she will never master the Planet like Pelican.  

The idea of a Super Hero is a profoundly fetishized cultural phenomenon that I've never quite understood to be frank. University discussions, y'know the kind where you wear track jackets and listening to Damien Rice, leave me ill-suited to argue this claim to hordes of Fanboys and I have no real reason, either. Plainly: the appeal doesn't resonate with me, but the reasons behind my disdain became clear yesterday. Back in May, I stuffed a bunch of Taco Bell down my pants and went to see a movie entitled Iron Man. The nebulous affair regarded the exploits of a raging alcoholic and playboy without explaining the dangers of STD's and unwanted pregnancies lurking behind such irresponsibility. At the very least I would have expected some lesions flecking his forehead. Aside from his ardent vice, Iron Man is made special, thus super, as the pimpled vernacular would have it from a metallic suit allowing him to swoop through the air like a hummingbird and smash through walls like a two-story tall brahma bull with opposable thumbs that also shoot out missiles. Despite the vitriol dripping from my fingers in the tongue in cheek cavalcade, I enjoyed the film a great deal. Watching a Super Hero, especially one played to the apex of impish charm by Robert Downey Jr.,  perform amazing feats tantalizes and torments the imagination as it stretches the capped confines of human potential. 

If something like Iron Man were to occur in reality, it would unquestionably stand as the most amazing event in human history. Even the most ardent of Christians would weep at the altar wondering why Jesus never shot rockets at Pontius Pilot. If we are going to play hypotheticals, let us grant the Pelican powers of abstract thought and a full understanding of human kinesiology and physics. As the world heaped praise on the new Iron Man, the Pelican would scoff in haste. Soured by the human experience, the Pelican would surmisably head to a local watering hole for Whiskey Tonics (the favorite adult beverage of all sea faring birds). After two or three drinks, depending on how much the Pelican ate that day, he would turn to the bar room television that would either be showing news of the real life Iron Man or speculation on where LeBron James will sign in 2010.  

The Pelican gives a loud scoff, aided by its mouths amazing acoustics, the call would rattle around the bar, drawing the ire of the bartender. The barkeep, a sage old Irish soul, would turn to the Pelican. 

"What you aren't impressed?" 

"Hell no. He's just wearing a suit." 

"Mighty fine suit though. Let's see you invent something like that." 

"Let's see him and his amazing suit go in the water." 

"They can't do that. He'd be electrocuted." 

"Exactly." 

The Pelican would walk out without paying his tab. I couldn't blame him. 

The Survey Says...

    Dearest Friends (And Family For I've Decided To Include My Parents And Sister In On This E-Mail), 

There are two reasons I am writing this e-mail: 

A) My good mutant muchacho Brock  has recently instituted a policy where our friend group aligns for a showcase each month. It is good to share, especially with these wonderful genius people. 

B) I have been reading a lot of economic mumbo jumbo as pertaining to sociological manners. This can be found in the form of Malcolm Gladwell's The Outliers which would have been a wonderful book if he didn't realize it was going to be so good. 

As such I am writing you with the humble request to fill out a survey of key questions. I asked what I felt was necessary to ask and nothing but my slipstream consciousness is evident on the page. The questions are far from easy but I hope each of you answers it as honestly and accurately as you can. I will do the same, sharing my results on Newhindenburg.blogspot.com within the next few hours. 

My goal in this is simple.... Having being wowed by sets of figures and survey results I have taken it upon myself to garner a wealth of raw information. I don't have any interest in mathematics or architecture so I figured I would garner information, an essence if you will, of those closest to me. My hypothesis: A story lies within everyone. My goal: to find the story that's going on. 

If you have the good faith and free time I would very much like to use your efforts in hopes of someday deciphering a concept, near and dear to my chest that I refer to as "The Great Narrative". 

-Joel Walkowski, esquire magazine subscriber

My results: 

The Winter 2008 Self Assessment and Research Survey

 

Basics

 

Name: Joel Cullen Walkowski

Age: 22

Gender: Male

Height: 6’3 though my Driver’s License Says 6’4
Weight: 215

Place of Origin: Born in Southfield, Michigan, raised in Dearborn, Michigan, currently languishing in Los Angeles, California

What Is Your Ethnic Origin: Irish/Polish… Perfect Mix For Lots of Drinking I suppose

How Would You Describe Your Love Life: Bleak, Narcissistic, and Envious but holding out for Magic

Your Family Life: I talk to my Mom a lot but regard my Father and Sister as near strangers and as such, am terrified to see them.

Your Friendship Life: Excellent. I try to give my best to those closest to me. Though I love the people surrounding me I sometimes have to stifle the urge to run into the desert and subsist off of possums without ever having another conversation.

Current Lifestyle: Allows me to become an expert on basketball and have long conversations when they are warranted. On the other hand, I don’t do much for myself.

How Good Are You At Math: Terrible

What Do You Enjoy Wasting Time On: Reading about basketball, playing catch, talking with Nick about the most trivial of matters, reading books I know I will forget, pretending to be mentally retarded, rubbing my belly.

What Is Your Favorite Food: Orange Chicken

Do You Wear A Watch: No

How Would You Describe Your Personal Fashion Sense: Most of my clothes were given to me in a garbage bag. As a result I am usually dressed like I am either about to play basketball or sleep in a teepee. I also wear unitards.

 

Professional/Creative

 

What Is Your Ultimate Be All End All Goal: To live in a Hogan Home funded by displays of my brilliance with a wife I love and my six daughters.  If this doesn’t pan out I would very much like to fill Will Ferrell’s shoes as America’s Favorite Drunken Clown.

How Do You Get Closer To This: Keep writing, living, and imagining. Also: open my heart as wide as it can go and let everyone inside.

What Are Your Fallback Plans: Work on a sitcom, play Tenori-On on the street, find work somewhere anywhere in a zoo. 

Of The Past Year…Of What Are You Proudest: Writing a novel, being well liked by children, generally acting like an imbecile.

Of The Past Year… Of What Are You Least Proud Of (Don’t share if you are uncomfortable): Putting off the novel to read about basketball and watch pornography, pick one of eleven or twelve depressing nights. 

 What Was The Most Fun Day Of The Past Year: Christmas Eve 2007. My Mother, dear friends, and I had an excellent dinner of shrimp. Afterwards, I went upstairs and wrote 40 pages. Then, I picked up Pete for a depressing breakfast at Big Boy. Afterwards, we peeked into family windows as they opened their presents.

What Was A Bad Day:  My first day of French III. Being so far behind and requisitely an imbecile put me far behind in the class. I looked at Sourya, an overweight Indian man with a command of the language and wished I were he. He plays video games for four hours a day and I was ready to give up everything, for a grade, to become him. No offense if you’re reading Sourya, I think you’re tops but we are VASTLY different creatures.

If You Could Get Paid To Do One Thing What Would It Be: Act weird and scream in public.

If You Could Live Anywhere Where Would It Be: Rome

What Is Your Career GPA: 3.65/college 2.5/high school

What Was Your SAT/ACT Score: 28 but this was skewed by a 17 in Math and a 26 in Reading.

PEPSI or COKE: Pepsi

Describe Your Work Habits: I wait for days and days to get in the zone. If I don’t get into the zone it is a bad day but if I do I am liable to walk arou8nd happily in the early hours and drink one beer in a meadow of USC’s campus. 

Draw A Cartoon (Use Microsoft Paint or Photoshop If Necessary): I put it at the top of this post. If you lacked context, I have utilized my entire Chinese History class to draw a series of bulbous creatures known as Borgs that always say “BORG”. This is a Bog on Halloween, dressed as a ghost, scaring another Borg.

Write A Haiku:

A rash on my thigh.

I itched but told my lover

“They’re constellations”

Describe a Fun Dream You Have Had:

I dreamed that Brock and I were riding on a plane that had been affixed with a bomb. We both knew, beforehand, that a bomb was on the plane… but decided the easiest was out was to built a train that would aide in our escape from the plane. We did. We lived. The would be bomber was this fellow who worked at Zemeckis two years ago and yelled at me once.

If You Do Drugs or Partake In Copious Amounts of Alcohol How Do You Feel When Affected: Pretty good, slightly weird, only mournful when awake waaaaaaaay past my bedtime.

Off The Top Of Your Head…If You Could Dedicate Yourself To ONE Thing What Would It Be: Guerilla Playgrounds!!!!!!!!

 

In Flux

What Will You Be Doing In A Year: No idea. I'm a failure waiting to happen. 

In A Month: Spending idle time w/ Mom and Sister

In A Week: Fretting over the novel

Tomorrow: Fretting over the novel and perhaps taking a beautiful girl on a long walk.

Why: Because I have no idea where the winds will take me. I am powerless in their grasps but it is oh so necessary to strive

Describe What You Find To Be Meaningful: Making people smile, laugh, and play.

Attempt To Explain A Concept You Hold Near And Dear But Fear Others Will Not Understand:

The Great Narrative is a lot like destiny without the force and aided by a shrewd sense of humor. T.G.N. understands how pitiful and hilarious are the existences shared by human, cacti, and dolphins and provides a reason for every peony interaction. Like God, but nice, free flowing, open-sourced, and willing to be scribed by his loyal denizens.

What Do You Do Immediately After Waking Up: Stare at Nick, stumble downstairs, find moccasins, plan my trek to school or read 5-10 pages of some bullshit.

How Good Are You At Math: Terrible

If You Could Change One Thing About Yourself What Would It Be: I’d like to be accepting of everything!!! J Without a debate first…

If You Could Point One Good Thing About Yourself To Others What Would It Be:

The thing I am predisposed to point to is the thing I already know… I am a fairly good writer. I know this and would happy if you noticed if I’d have shaved recently.