Maybe the Kids Aren't Alright

I rise from my symbolic grave like a zombie gunslinger. I’m here to take out all my enemies, all the haters. Each and everyone one.

My dedication to Hindy has been questioned. It need not be. The philosophy that powers this blog courses through my blood, not in a venereal disease kind of way but in a stuff that I live and die for kind of way. While writers have come and gone from our humble abode (don’t even get me started on Archibald, apparently the stupid fuck thinks Vancouver is cooler than America) I have been here from just about the beginning and I will not leave. Never.

Instead I will write you guys plays and short stories, because you see, that’s what has been taking up vast amounts of my time since the Super Bowl. These works of art (which they most definitely are) are going to revolutionize some literary shit.

So without further ado, here is the first of a number of Hindy exclusive plays and short stories. This first one is a play though. Enjoy. And if you not, you’re just a hater like everyone else.

***

Horror Pops

Written and directed by Sergei T. S. W. Tortoise

Staring: _____ and _____

Featuring the voice of: _____

With appearances by: _____, _____, _____, _____

The stage is practically barren with the exception of a holy trinity of decrepit house hold furnishings and a row of lights just in front of the audience. There is a ripped to shreds brown leather recliner; a TV tray with a can of Hormel chili, a white towel and a can opener; and finally a rickety table seemingly seconds from toppling under the weight of a black rotary phone. Oh yeah there’s also a person in the middle of it all, the hero (well at least the main character) of our story. He looks like a bum, but obviously he isn’t this is his apartment after all. His name is Richie Sanders and he wears a sweat stained white t-shirt and purple corduroy pants whose frayed cuffs reveal orange flip-flops. He looks haggard for some reason, which is funny because he just spent the day playing hooky from work. What exciting things did he do on his day off, well nothing really, unless you consider watching old taped episodes of the Sally Jesse Raphael Show exciting. Seriously that’s all he’s done today, except now, because right now he’s walking over to the phone which just started ringing.

RICHIE

Yeah, this is Richie. Oh, it’s you Harry…No I didn’t go to work today. Why...The restaurant got robbed. You don’t say…No I took the day off, had more exciting things to do than go to work. Seems like an especially good day not to have gone in now…What’d I do? Oh exciting stuff, you know. I’m really not one to brag…no…Alright alright. I just stayed home, watched some TV…Like your life is so much better. Fuck you, you jerk!

He slams down the phone and the desk crumbles.

RICHIE

Just my luck. I ought to make him pay for this table. This would’ve never happened if he hadn’t of aggravated me.

He starts pacing, mumbling to himself, undoubtedly reviewing all of Harry’s trespasses in the utmost detail. The more he paces the more fidgety he gets, reaching a point of near trembles around the 42^nd minute. After another 8 more minutes of this he comes to a panting stop at the head of the stage trying to catching his breath.

RICHIE

That no good son of a bitch. I hate him I tell you…

He pauses as if about to go on about Harry, but the pause bears no fruition. Instead he starts pacing again. This fidgeting doesn’t come on this time, and after 36 minutes more of pacing, he makes his way over to the TV tray. He turns towards the crowd and begins to speak.

RICHIE

You know I haven’t eaten today. I think it’s why I’m so—so antsy. I don’t know. I’m probably wrong. It’s probably something else. But I am pretty hungry now. Hopefully this will hit the spot.

He picks up the can of chili and holds it like a model from The Price is Right. He wants everyone to see what he is about to eat. After doing this he puts it back down on the table and picks up the can opener. In an excruciatingly slow manner he opens the can. After opening the can he places the can opener back down and stares into the decapitated can.

RICHIE

May not be a meal fit for a king, but it’ll do for a jester like me.

He removes his shirt, gingerly folding it and then setting it aside. After two minutes of standing over the TV tray he grasps the can with both hands and lifts it up above his head. He lets his head fall back and proceeds to pour the chili into his mouth and upper torso. The entire can eventually drained, he sets it down and picks up the towel. He wipes off all the chili that now covers him, the same way someone else would dry off after a shower. Finally clean he throws the towel into the audience and picks up his shirt. While putting it on he starts speaking.

RICHIE

Look’s like I was right again. That definitely hit the spot. It’ll give me the energy I need to watch some more episodes of Sally.

He walks over to the recliner, but before sitting down he turns on the imaginary TV that sits a few feet in front of it. Then sitting down on the recliner, he pulls the lever and reclines as much as it will let him. He is ready for another two hour marathon. Over the next two hours he will occasionally sit up and pay particular attention to a segment, sometimes he will hoot and holler, but more often than not he will lie back and be about as passive a TV viewer as you can imagine. Around the two hour mark he will visibly hit a wall and fall asleep. Within seconds of drifting off he will start snoring. Not an obnoxious snore but a continual low hum of a snore.

After ten minutes of this, five figures appear on stage, one at each corner of the stage and the fifth (the obvious leader) at the head looking straight out on to the audience. They are all teenage boys, between the ages of 14 and 17. They are all short yet slightly tussled blonde hair, blue eyes, clear complexions and are wearing the same outfit, one that consists of: a white polo shirt, a brown leather belt with a golden buckle, white pleated shorts that end about three inches from the knee, and brown Sperrys that are worn without socks. Three of the boys are holding their hands in the shape of the guns, while the others have theirs balled into fists. After reaching their places, they stand impeccably still for a minute. Suddenly the one in front breaks into a crouch and sneers at the audience, softly chuckling to himself before yelling.

LEADER

Attack!

The other four boys all run at Richie and start punching, stabbing, and shooting, while the leader continues to stare out at the audience. The stage lights violent flash, filling the stage with green and red. The leader finally he turns towards Richie and starts to saunter over. The other boys have continued to attack Richie’s body relentlessly and his shirts has visibly started to become drenched with what looks like blood. The leader finally comes to a stop about a front of Richie, he pauses and then leaps onto the arm of the recliner. Richie still hasn’t stirred. The green and red flashes stop. The leader moves in clasps both of his hand together his index and middle finger extended on both hands, as if he is holding a gun and begins yelling.

LEADER

Pop…Pop. Pop Pop. Pop! Pop Pop Pop! POP!

His job done, he jumps off the recliner and walks off stage, the other four boys following behind him. Richie is still lying there, his shirt now red. There is no longer any snoring. Just silence. This is how things will be for eight solid minutes. Once those eight minutes pass Richie comes to with a gasp. He sits up and looks down at his shirt.

RICHIE

Oh god. I must’ve thrown up on myself while I was asleep. Maybe that Hormel chili didn’t hit the spot.

He gets up and immediately takes of his shirt. He wrings it out, sending blood/chili to the floor.

RICHIE

Gross…

Suddenly the green and red flashing lights return. A song starts playing, it’s “House Arrest” by Ariel Pink, except with out the cool(and redeeming) intro. In other words it is a truly horrible song. Richie looks up towards the heavens, a look of bewilderment on his face. This looks changes to one of complete horror when a disembodied voice booms out to him.

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

Richie…answer me, I know you are there.

RICHIE

Ummm…this is Richie.

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

Do you know why I am speaking to you?

RICHIE

Is this God?

The voice starts laughing. It’s almost a giggle, or as close to a giggle as a booming disembodied voice can muster.

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

No it is not, but that is beside the point as that is not the question I asked you

RICHIE

Oh…I’m sorry. I just thought I should ask, I mean I just thought you might…

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

Richie! That is not what I asked. Again, do you know why I am here.

RICHIE

No, I have no idea.

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

Your time has come Richard Matthew Sanders. It is time for me to take you to another place.

RICHIE

Where are we going?

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

You will see when we get there.

RICHIE

Am I going to hell.

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

I said you will see when we get there…but just because of that I can guarantee it sure as hell won’t be Babylon. Oh and put on your shirt. I am tired of seeing you shirtless.

Richie walks over picks up his shirt, wrings it out once more, and puts it back on.

BOOMING DISEMBODIED VOICE

Hurry up, I haven’t got all day.

Richie slowly walks towards the head of the stage. He sadly looks out on the crowd and pitifully waves. The lights go out.

-THE END-

We're Branching Out

First and foremost, it feels fucking to great to write under my given banner. What a blast. What a freedom. It might not be a civil liberty, but it feels like it could be.

This site started without purpose (and I can not chance to guess about the others) but it seems that I have slowly been forming the blog into a vehicle for worldly examinations and personal introspections. This is a good thing, I think. Maybe I've been airing demons the past few weeks. I don't care. Life feels better because of it.

Given the path we've taken, I feel an experiment is necessary. Unlike so much of our shit, this will be a collaborative endeavor. It's pure introspection but I can't do it without some help.

Thursday: The Movie.

This Thursday (if I get a camera) I will follow my actions from waking up until 10pm at night. I will chronicle the events of the day in hope of having some fun/pulling some serious insight/no reason at all. I will be as candid and honest as I possibly can be. No thought will be censored, no dark secret left unturned. If I feel something I will do my best to share it.

Why Thursday? Why not? Life is especially strange and multifaceted at the moment. Vanilla Ice Cream has been offering life lessons, shouldn't I see what lessons my life might provide.

After the taping is done. I will write a response to my day. Examining what I think I felt, emphasizing what seems important.

Then I will hand the tapes to my friend Nick. Nick will edit the video Thursday Night. I would like for others to come by my home/help Nick/and share their opinions of what made my day matter. "Open Source" is the idea at hand. If you read this, you are welcome to share.

Friday Morning I will watch the video and reevaluate my Thursday. See what it really means. Hopefully this will lead to better understanding of something.

My dream is that it will be 1/10th as good as this...

Kafka On The Shore

I've given you my pleas, I've extended my reach into the radical and weird. I've expunged great truths about Pop Tarts. Such is life, and such is fun, but I am happy to say that I have turned over a new leaf. Forget Charlie Hoofing III. I can go by my given name, Joel Cullen Blaise Walkowski. There is no shame in it. Perhaps it is worth warranting. "Blaise" is pronounced "Blaze". Fitting as I'm set to set the world on fire. 

I'm not the smartest. 

I am a far cry from the hardest working. 

But I care more than anyone.

That alone will carry me. 

I will will myself anywhere. 

Dear Hollywood/Los Angeles/Collaborators/The Mere Idea of Being a Truck Driver, 

I'm in a dicey situation. We all are. I cannot skimp over this fact. We are all just one misstep away from losing ourselves. I feel like I almost lost my essence forever. The pull of doubt and "The Beautiful LITTLE Life" proved to be daunting. My dreams were so big and vivacious (when I was 13 I used to contemplate conquering Plato without knowing a single thing about anything) that they proved crippling in a new environment. 

Seeing other persons, people harder working and greater than I. I had no choice but to look inside myself and be afraid. Maybe nothing would ever come out of me. Maybe I would have to settle for a quiet life of unobstruction (after all my three year old dream was to be a garbage man). Watching lessers triumph seemed ok. After all, they had the will where I was only willing to fall short. 

What I realize now is that the will has never left. For a while I saw the others cavorting around, seeking to satiate their egos, and convinced myself that the will to do great was a bad thing. It isn't. The problem is that these jabroni's are called by nothing but their insecurity. Looking at my life, I do a whale load out of love and nothing else. At the apex I love to write. So I write. At my best, film seems altogether perfect, so I make films. Feeling hungry, I deign to cook. So I fucking cook. 

I have convinced myself these desires are a bad thing. That pride has no place. I remember the moment when the decision became clear. On the hilt of nine misspent months I was licking my wounds at a library job, shelving books when I should have been seeking extrinsic satisfaction. On my IPOD Kanye's Diamonds from Sierra Leone remix with the Beach Boys came on. 

There was nothing I could do. I had to listen to the song for an hour straight. I couldn't envision doing things for myself ever again. Peace Corps became a big idea. So did a life of quiet servitude. If I was Catholic I probably would have joined a monastery. If I was Catholic, a few month's trepidation would forever Pittsnogle (if you don't get this reference wikipedia Kevin Pittsnogle) my life. 

I'm a resolute atheist. The path to immortality seems much more difficult. Laughs aren't just laughs, they detract from the purpose. 

It's time to be pure. We're too young to be held down. Let's be utterly stupid about what we're capable of. I'm saying two novels in eight months. I know I'm not capable of it, but I won't let myself know it. With Nick, Bryan, and Mom, I will have enough love to get through it all. Love is all we need. I'm so fucking loved I have no excuse. 

I just wrote a list of people I love purely and resolutely (only people I know). I couldn't fit everyone on the paper. My life is FUCKING FANTASTIC. 

The future begins now. Life is beautiful. Not even classes can hold me back. 

I am back to being who I am supposed to be. This doesn't mean I don't care about the world. It means I am unwilling to not leave my mark. 

LOOK OUT WORLD. I'LL BE CALLING YOU ON YOUR BULLSHIT IN NO TIME. 

- The New Joel Walkowski

Let's Get Disasterous

So it seems our boy Joely has decided to come out of the closet and go by his given moniker. Weak move, Joely. It probably won't stop you from posting under the banner of "Charlie Hoofing III". Just like your over night drunks, you'll forget it all and move on without shame. You're a real bastard for that one.

Onward to business, fun, and the sort of things that make life worth living. I have recently taken a departure from my strict regimen of gun collecting and Afro-American studies to embark on a sojourn along the coasts of California.

I've been in this place for nearly two years. I love the food, the weather, and the women. While I've enjoyed living every day like a Saturday, I now realize that I've been seeing this place through the perspective of Axels (or Axls).

Axel Foley of Beverly Hills Cop fame came to Los Angeles with a chip on his shoulder. Seeking to avenge his friend's murder, he attacked in a manner that was his and his alone. Axel Foley solved the case by being Axel Foley. Bananas in tail pipes and spouting streams of bullshit so staunch they look like smog was the order of the day. While his wits and exploits are the stuff of legend, a closer viewing shows an unwillingness to grow on Axel's part.

It's a different game out here. Axel wasn't ready to play it. Think of him let a much better, more effective version of Houston Rockets PG Rafer "Pentecost" Alston. Rafer is a streetball legend, coined "Skip to my Lou" because of his sick penetration and dazzling dribbles. In terms of pure basketball skills, he was next to R. Kelly on the mantle of "World's Greatest".

Pure skill is nothing. It's about how you play the game. Instead of entering as a late round pick and setting the league on fire with an unfathomable cocktail of skills from different forms, Rafer bounced around the league, doing nothing of worth but earning the nickname "Pentecost" from Stan Van Gundy. The famous incident occurred when Van Gundy informed Alston that he would be given a starting role and asked if he would be ready. Forever arrogant, Alston proclaimed "I'm like the Pentecost. Always ready to rise." Such confidence can be seen in his recent feud with Chris Paul. I would like to believe that Axel Foley would feud with Chris Paul if he were an NBA point guard. Think of Chris Paul as the Gumbelic replacement detective.

Axl Rose made a big fucking deal out of LA being a jungle. I always thought this was fucking ridiculous. Then I left LA for a few days. Seeing wide open spaces and people living as farmers reminded me that I don't have to live in a van. There is no rule saying I have to be a lost boy along the way. If I do it I'll deserve it. There is no penalty for caring.

However, we know we're no genius. Because we're fucking stupid we have no choice but to spout pour shit, make our films, and hope something sticks. If not we're liable to be making our Chinese Democracy for the rest of our lives.

I'm happy to be here. Happy to be alive. The World is waiting for Dartmouth.

the implementation of repetition will bring this aircraft to it's knees

i am currently reading this amazing book about an obituary writer and his penguin. it is whimsical, horrific and funny. the thing is i find myself currently struggling through it wanting to instead be reading a book about someone getting killed in a dirty council estate. weird to want to shift from smoething that makes me smile to something that will obviously be a big bummer.

these are the situations that i am constantly faced with. they are not life really that important until i delve beneath the surface and realize that this is just yet another example of the fight between reality and fantasy in my mind. bummer, eh?

i hope everyone liked joel's post. it was fucking genius. i write his name because his post transcended the psuedonym. that is something to be fucking proud of. ennui though, thats a bummer.

so yeah, i still exist around these part. im hovering in the corner of the room, flapping my arms slowly so as to avoid detection. it'd be a rough life if it weren't so easy.

oh yeah, i've never believed in giving up. so i won't. at least based on precedence.

The Good Life... I Might Need Some Serious Guidance... A Love Letter

Note: This post operates under an assumption that is quintessentially American. That is to say that it is a marriage of the ambitious and the industrious. Seeing the successes of Henry Ford and George Washington Carver, I have come to believe that I am above average. Since the age of eight I knew I could achieve something big and beautiful. 

Additional Note: Though we dabble in personas and fake personalities here at Hindenburg, these are the pleas of one Joel Walkowski. 

It feel like Atlanta, it feel like Miami, it feel like LA - Kanye

***** 

It's Spring Break! 

Half-way through the semester, studies halt. It's high time for college students to let loose, get drunk,  throw confetti and assume the future will wait for their hangovers to dissipate.  It couldn't have come any sooner. It couldn't be any sadder. 

I have barely lifted a book this semester. The prospect of school has been but a blip on my mental radar. Don't let this laziness fool you. I am exhausted. Utterly tired and unable to wake up. I've hopefully sat at my computer and waited for great words to pour out, but they haven't. I've had the freedom to enjoy every human interaction, but haven't. I've made one film this semester and hoisted boom for another. I am learning skills that could pave the way for some semblance of an adult life but can't pay attention for the (adult) life of me. I see all this and know I could save myself with the lift of a finger, but I might as well be Steven Hawking. 

In the past two months, I have felt the "general malaise" slip it's clutches around me for the first time. This is a big deal to me.  A HUGE DEAL. The closest I've come to an all out state of emergency. I've had near death experiences without any real urgency. 

To wit:  

I awake in Berlin. That is the first thing I know. I know I've been sick. I know I just had surgery and that no Dallas Mavericks games will be on TV. I know because I asked about Dirk Nowitzki while being  put under. 

A pretty doctor hovers over me. She is assigned to me because she is the only staff fluent in English. Four others linger over her shoulders, peering at me, checking the tubes that descend into my testicles to drain the poison spouted forth by my ruptured appendix. 

"What is your name?" she asks. 

"My name is Joel." 

"Why are you in Germany?" 

"I wanted to go to Europe and see my sister." 

"Oh yes. Really?" 

"Yes. Is there something wrong?" 

"Yes. You have some bleeding in your abdomen. We need to have another operation." 

"Will I be ok?" 

"That depends on the surgery." 

"You better heal me. I'm gonna go to school in California. I'm going to make movies with my friends. I'm going to do good." 

*****

Here I am, living my dream situation. Everything I've ever wanted laid out on a silver platter. It could all be mine. I could conquer every dream, diminishing them as mere childish ambitions on my way to conquest pure and true. There is something to be said for not knowing your limitations, how you work, or what's required for greatness. 

It's two years later. I am living in Los Angeles with the two best friends I'll ever have.  (There are other great friendships, apologies to Mr. Bianco, the Silly Italian, and Cicadas.) Their impact is so great we no longer have friendship. We say hello, we play sports, and have good conversations, but we aren't friends by the college definition. We don't invite each other on night time forays, we don't bring our sexual partners around, we do our best to make our own lives. In essence, we have to. Our friendship is so great, so all encompassing, it transcends typical boundaries. We could easily stay satisfied in our tight circle but have opted to branch outward to other kids, drugs, and exploits.  If not, we'll stay 17 forever. Looking back, that might not have been a bad thing. 

We know the power of our love. It  goes past friendship and into brotherhood in it's purest form. We aren't linked by blood. I know we'll forever face the share of barriers and obstacles that come with human endeavors. Somedays I will hate you. Somedays, you're the only reason I'm here. Without you two (3=Bianco), I'd have long ago followed the Updike route, running away from it all. Sometimes I expressed this. Rabbits need to run. There are no conquests on the horizon.  I have nothing left to talk about, no jokes left to tell. With nothing to chase I begin to feel small. I get scared. 

Whether I want to or not, I'll love these two silly bastards for the rest of my life. 

I'm attending the best film school in the world. I have a spiritual and literary advisor who doubles as my  nurturing boss. I have a bevy of good ideas. An inspiring  first draft of a novel sits in front of me. On my hard drive are several short stories worthy to be printed at this current moment. (I am a severe critic of my own work and know these are among the best things I have ever done). Over the past year and a half I've obtained knowledge of what makes a good movie, how novels work, and what is inspiring. This has been bestowed unto me as an unprovoked blessing. 

Given the wealth of knowledge while being cognizant of my lack of insecurities it would be safe to assume I'd be stretching these boundaries to show what I can do. (You should know I wasn't always this lovable flake. I dreamed of movies so vibrantly, approaching them like a Mussolini inspired imperialist. I directed absurd plays. In short, I achieved where I shouldn't have, along with these friends, of course) I didn't ask what was expected. I did not do what was required. I set forth with a lack of conscience that Lil' Weezy would envy. 

I am here now. In the place I always imagined. It looks like I pictured it, better even. 

*****

I am in the midst of living moment to moment. Everyday is an adventure. Great people, delicious meals,  La Dolce Vita to an infinite degree. The problem is...  I don't feel it. At least not now, it's such a battle to maintain ownership of my life, that I struggle to expand the parameters. This means I don't care. I DON'T CARE. When I am out, riding my bike, living life, making jokes, drinking wine, smoking pot, there are so many inspirations. The average thought can be utilized, groomed into some fun, beautiful idea. It might not be great but it will make me smile at the very least. Out in the world I am awash in these ponderings, lost to the point that I forget myself. As an aspiring creative person, this is the mindset you strive for, save for the fact that it empties when it's time for self-expression. 

I know I can get there, to this fuckin' Zion, but I'm struggling. What was once fresh is now stagnant. I ain't hungry, not like the Brandon Jacobs of the world, striving for every yard. I feel like Maurice Clarett, a couple steps from jail, especially with this credit report. A few days ago, I began to view life in a van as my best possible prospect.  I see all this in front of me. So many ideas, so many opportunities. I seize these some nights, stumble on great success and feelings of exaltation. The other nights, I sit,wait, and pout. I think back to the great nights, instead of being quelled I get damned irritated.  Watching as my potential turns into disappointment. Tim Thomas all over again.  All I have to do is consider, analyze, and type. I know it's there.  Fascination and immersion could make all the difference, but these aren't the sort of things you can force. 

The past few year's diligence and effort have been put forth towards the moment when something is so great that I'm left with no choice but submission. Now that it may be here, I am shrinking away. 

I adopt a facade that I don't care. I CARE. I pretend the bad nights don't get to me. THEY DO. I pretend I'm capable of everything I imagined myself to be. TO BE DETERMINED. This is not to say I don't love my life. I DO. The friends, the laughs. the Japanese food. Somedays are so good, I can't do anything but smile, but that isn't enough. 

This is no coincidence. As of late I have been overcome with the malaise, thinking that nothing matters. Feeling as if there is no escape from my current life. There are so many ways to pull myself out,  but I find myself in hiding. When I feel myself hiding from my abilities, what have become duties I go out and have fun. Because of this strange loophole in causality I sometimes feel guilt alongside my fun. This is against everything I believe in. 

*****

Life is about the journey!

*****

My initial plan for Spring Break was to hunker down, alone in my room, and write. I've had writing hanging over my head like a cleft lip for months. This was my chance to tackle it. To spark the inner renaissance I've been pining for since I realized it was possible. 

This will not do. I am terrified of this prospect. I can't bring myself to care. I can't allow it to take over me.  I get ready to surge forward with nothing but free time ahead of me. 

I'm going camping instead. I will have a great time with exceptional people, but I won't be doing the thing I feel I should be doing. Maybe someday. Something needs to happen. To scare away the fear. To awaken the beast. I know something else, something bigger and better, lies dormant within me. I've seen it. I know what my drive can be. I know the feeling of wanting something so bad it hurts. I used to go to sleep inspired and troubled with the idea of doing myself justice. 

Lately it's a burden. Maybe we'll have to settle, find zen in basketball, eat zucchini, and have eight daughters. It'd be a great life, but deep down, I'll know I'm settling for less. 

SPRING BREAK!!!!!

How do I want it again? 

In closing, my credit score is shit, I owe money for something I am unsure of, there are no tags on my car, I don't do my taxes or fill out vital financial aid forms, I can't bring myself to write, and am incapable of caring about anything besides friendship and love. Witness 21 year-old Joel Walkowski, months away from testing one's ability to coast through life on charm alone. 

"Being named Jack is like being named Harvey."

-Sticky

Advent Clownface Advent

Please be patient and bear with me on this one. I am gunning for your immediate disgust but I beg you to quash this feeling and bear with me. I'm not going that far out there. We will not discuss what life would be like as Dracula (maybe Blackula but that's for later). We're not going very far but we are going to a subversive ridiculous place. 

I let a chicken eat a bean out of my belly button today. It wasn't a bad thing to do. It wasn't great and I doubt I'll do it again unless the chicken somehow tricks me. While it wasn't a great thing, I am glad for the experience. 

Think back to the time before Hot Fudge. A group of friends gather for ice cream and social talk of the day. When the conversation becomes lax, the friends are unwilling to blame themselves and instead sour themselves on the ice cream. Desperate to revive the conversation, one has the inkling that fudge would be good on ice cream. On a lark, he microwaves a glass container of fudge and pours the molten results on his scoop. He does not know what will happen or what it will be like, but does anyway. Such is the mother innovation, the onus of super-fun-times. 

The prospect of poultry beaks has always frightened me. I've had these birds in my life for over a year now and still fear the prospect of getting pecked. This fear becomes especially tangible when toying with the idea of six foot tall chickens. 

The dining experience brought a new kind of fear into my life. I have been afraid of feelings, sounds, and atmospheres, but little of visible fear has ever crept up on me. Like it or not, tangible threats to my livelihood mostly come in sonic forms. Little visual terror has ever happened to me. The only guns that have ever been pointed at me have been in silhouette. Shadows don't count. 

The prospect of a beak nearing my navel was an uncomfortable one. The bite hurt a little, but I was left better because of it. A small facet of life has been explored, like going to Thailand but only for 15 minutes. I don't have a full understanding of the place but I'll fall asleep with a smile because I know it exists. 

If you aren't exploring, you're failing

The world is not concrete. Explore the circumstances and you're bound to find some great place to push on the parameters. Yesterday I walked up to a Cop in the midst of writing me a ticket. I asked him why the fuck he was writing me a ticket. He gave me requisite explanations. I told him I was too good of a guy to get 5 tickets in 4 weeks. He looked me over and agreed. This was not all. he was not so sure that he could trust the innate knowledge his eyes provided. He gave me an honesty test to judge how good I was. 

The first question was "What do you think about the cops?" 

I answered honestly and uncomfortably but all became well when he smiled he tore up the ticket. 

Magic is everywhere. Take heart, Arch.  

I Am Not A Gardener

Author's Note: The Boston Celtics recently beat the Detroit Pistons in what many experts are calling an Eastern Conference Finals Preview. Frankly, I don't give a fuck. I'd rather get a prostate exam than talk about that game. That's a bad example. I love prostate exams!

You can be what you want to be. You can do what you want to do. These heavy adages have hung in the air around America's youth serving as both an inspiration and a burden. (A burdspiration?) I will argue that these words are true. True as the withered hands I deign to type with. (It's true. They are both calloused and covered in some sort of primordial goop.) However young I am there is a limit on my horizon. There are several things that I will always be, and other things that I am drastically incapable of becoming. For better for worse I this for the long haul, unless of course I manage to find God and become the Vicar of Christ on Earth.

Case in point: I tried to grow a garden of herbs and grasses but no vegetation decided to grow. In lieu of earthly delights I was shocked to find that the only thing growing was a gaggle of old term papers. I thought I could lose myself in this new hobby. Poor naive me. My old bullshit haunts the new me.

In the most recent incarnation of the NBA, I have seen so many people attempt to move on to bigger and better things. I have seen Shaq go to Phoenix and pretend he can still move. I have seen Pau Gasol make the trek to LA and fancy himself as "The Coast Nowitzki". Above all else, these paragons of the game have found new life or crashed and burned badly. However good or great (in a fat way) they are, nothing can take away from the sad truth that these men are what they are.

Mr. Gasol, I can see your thoughts. I know that in the last moments of a close game that the desire to throw up an ill advised finger roll is close at hand. So close it bubbles slightly beneath the surface.

In the terrible city of Boston, the luster of basketball revival has blocked out the personas of Ray Allen, Kevin Garnett, and Paul Pierce. Seeing the Celtics record and the cohesive play of these paper champions, most hoops disciples have bargained away the nagging thoughts and embraced this Celtic team as a potential champion and a reinvention of everything we have come to understand about these players.

That's bullshit. Despite the record and smiles, these men are losers through and through. Cursed by the heavens like James and Jumaine Jones they are forever doomed to walk about in the shadows of basketball legendary. Two of the Celtics Three are great and one has a great jumpshot, which is enough to be classified as "almost great". However great or almost great these men might be, however successful their season has been, nothing can make up for the fact that fate isn't on their side.

Kevin Garnett. You were born a loser. You solidified this fact by jumping straight from High School to the NBA. Duke could have changed your path. You think being intense can mask that deep laying insecurity? The fact that deep down you just aren't good enough? It doesn't. You toiled in the hinterlands of Minnesota becoming a sympathetic figure due to the exploits of Sprees, McHales, and Scissorbiaks. Along the way we have heard these others become derided and maligned by not being good enough for you Mr. Garnett. While that may be true, the thing is, you are not good enough to be good. I will not deny your greatness as a ball player but your ceiling exists solely at the brink of "Utterly Disappointing".

You should have been great. Their should have been championships, but there weren't/ Even if you win one now, it's too late. You've already been defined. The whole lot of you are losers.

Now that Dean Garrett, he's a winner.

Go Pistons!

The pRESENT Indictment

Yeah. You know the drill. Back. Sorry. If I could give a coupon for free waffle fries I could. You people deserve waffle fries more than anyone. This might seem trite but I don't know what I've ever done to earn my share of waffle fries. 

It'

s 

so easy

To get lost in this strange place. Wandering for days. Wondering why people think it's ok to talk to me about denim? 

These sentences don't deserve to be said all that much. Then again, I am the same guy who made a fortune out of running into restaurants and screaming "THE POPE'S DEAD!" At least those words had some feeling behind them. I ain't just making conversation. There is no attempt at trying to be street. I wish to think that it was life in it's most unadulterated form.  The pope is not dead. I can dance with that. 

It's all about getting big. Throw the bullshit out there and live the life you want. That's what they tell me in college applications, our bastion of truth, told me so. I was talking to my father about the merits of his new lifestyle and the giant catfish they offer when i stumbled on the epiphany that I actually gave a fuck. 

Now this shouldn't shock or alarm you. All of us give a fuck and care a little about something, usually something Swedish. However, for the past 8 months I have been caught up in a stream of everyday joviality that served to undermine the singular purpose (that I dunno what it is). Reading Rabbit Run blasted me to the point of dancing in the murky streams of nothingness and praying for the day when I can live in a van. 

I mean that's good and all, but on the cusp of graduating from college our best case scenario should not be centered around "living in a van". 

My question to you is... When did being successful become so uncool? 

I'd like to think rumors of our demise have been greatly exagerated

Dear friends and lovers,

I don't know whats up with us. We seem to be in a transitional period, but i refuse to believe that the Hindenburg is done, especially when there's so much hindenburgian shit out there. So fret you not, just wait patiently while we go through our awkward adolescent stage. Before you know it we'll be flirting with girls and shit.

As I'm sure many of you know, I'm all about this current NBA season. As Chuck recently told a close friend of ours, the NBA is all that we've been talking about this year. If one ignores the Eastern Conference (outside of Detroit and Boston) it's easy to see why. Teams in the west are playing a basketball that neither of us have witnessed during our life time. I really cannot think of a time when their were six teams that could legitimately claim a chance at the title. I love it though especially since my beloved Lakers are one of those lucky six and I really can't wait to see how things unfold. Really though, I have become enraptured by the NBA and it's aestheticism.

There is one problem that arises from this though, what happens when this season ends. Although I'll have to wait and see, I've pretty much given up any chance of liking baseball as much as I have in the past. After the excitement that the NBA playoffs are sure to be made of, I don't know how I will be able to go back to the slow and contemplative nature of the game I used to consider my favorite American sport. I'm sure I'll still be able to watch my Dodgers, especially when Vin's calling the game, but gone are the days when I can tune into any game that I don't have a rooting interest in. Maybe this is for the best though. Nothing tops October baseball of course, but things will never be the same