A Wart In A World Full Of Swallows

Imagine this: The grim reaper is coming after you. He is also dribbling a basketball.

If that's how we thought of death, basketball would be terrifying.

Basketball isn't terrifying though. Some even regard it as FUN! It's fun on the playground playing with your pals. It's fun in the back of an empty Ryder Truck, trying to play as you jostle with the push and pull of the truck. It's even fun in the NBA!



To show our commitment to the community, my co-colleague and I will be previewing each (and EVERY) NBA Team before the season starts. Why trust us? Because we're experts.

Today's Team: The Hotlanta Hawks.

Fact: I have a friend from Georgia. He doesn't give a shit about the Hawks. They've moved past caring about things in the Southern States.
Fiction: The Atlanta Hawks are a style of Mediterranean Bread.
Fact: They go great with Hummous.
Fiction: The Atlanta Hawks lost Forward Josh Childress to a Greek Team. Not true. They lost him to the scourge of marijuana many many moons ago.
Fact: Al Horford is the only Dominican in the NBA. We should all, my friends, your friends, their friends, should go to an "Dominican Tribute Night" in Atlanta on November 11th. Dominican flags will be distributed to the first 10,000 fans and the second half of the game will be played with chickens on the court.
Fiction: There is no "Dominican Tribute Night" is there?

Story of the Off Season:

Joe Johnson, the team's multi-talented swingman bought a bag of dog food because it included a dog whistle. Upon discovering the whistle, Johnson was heart broken upon realizing that dog whistles don't sound like barking.

Sitcoms, Brock Alter, and the New American Dream (Brock Alter not guaraneed to be included) A Post by Joel Walkowski

[Author's Note: I lose to Appu.]

Another Autumn Sunday came to an end and I found myself trying to turn my brain back on. It had been a great day. Panini's for breakfast, football on the screen with bits of book hungrily scarfed down in between. We played football in a parking lot, ate tremendous hamburgers, and danced to French Pop Music that is way too jamming to play at the Gap. Still, Sunday was over and my brain laid half-asleep in the groggy, gravy state of too much consumption and not enough concentration.

My new deal is trying to concentrate more. On anything and everything. This is a great approach for books and a terrible one for moles.

I turned on a video from the good people at TED. It was a lecture from Jill Bolte Taylor, a neuroscientist who fell into a new understanding of the brain when she had the misfortune of having a stroke. The details can not possibly be described by a scribe as ineffectual as I, but the end result was a simple appreciation of the joys wrought by consciousness.

It also cemented a burgeoning theory I've been playing with of the new American Dream. (Again, I am being too effusive and grandiose). Long gone are the days when the young and hungry strive to step forward, work hard, and achieve. A white picket wife in the suburbs with a beautiful house and kids? "Well, by golly" the baby boomers say "you've done well." As personified by Dr. Taylor's chance meeting with brilliance, effort is way passe. Not to dismiss a woman with a doctorate as a loaf, but her greatest achievement came as something that happened to her that coalesced with the person she already was.

Why not be great for the person we are and the things that happen to us? As a college senior on the cusp of graduation, my views are incredibly biased, but climbing the ladder just isn't what it used to be. I dread the prospect of getting a job after graduation. Whither the bills but what of the path of self-sufficiency, intellectualism, and-dare I say it-freedom. Living with my Father in Indiana or planting trees in Rural Canada would allow me to preserve and slowly nourish my potential. A job is definitely a path to embark on, but to enter as a cog is not a path I deign to embark on after an eighteen-year tenure as a cog in Academic Institutions.

Another downside of the job: In a universe of another's creation, one is reduced to pawndom and prevented at all costs from becoming a superstar.

Inside my immediate circle are 10-15 people I know for a goddamned fact to be superstars. The earth quakes in their wake as everything they encounter is forced to bend to their person. Why would any of us adopt an outward ambition when so much could be harvested from what we already have? By being ourselves, the world is forced to find us, but when it does, the results will be staggering.

The New American Dream: Success handed down through the veins of persona and experience. Who we are is what matters. What we want is of no concern. Soul. Soul. Soul. Heart. Heart. Heart.

I don't watch much television but when I do I favor "The Office" & "The Wire". During the end of last season, The Office brought in a spunky young actress by the name of Amy Ryan to play a love interest for the forever-forlorn Michael Scott. She immediately came on screen and lit up the screen with the rare dose of feminine dopiness, naivety, and the thing men like to refer to as "spunk". In a show hinging so much on improvisation and free-form comedy, I expect the characters to resemble the actors playing them, but this "Holly" leapt off the screen. Her performances are among the most authentic I've ever seen even in a satirical universe stretched to near cartoonish boundaries. The show undeniably has heart, which makes Ryan's star all the more glittery.

I'm getting into "The Wire". After finishing up a paper early Friday Morning, I turned on the beginning of Season Two. If you aren't familiar, the show transpires in the gritty underworld of Baltimore Cops and Drug Dealers. It's the most artful thing I've even seen, but who comes a twittering on screen wearing headphones in her squad car and making sweet talk to the boys but Amy Ryan. I recognized the face immediately, expecting some sort of transformation. There was none.

The Amy Ryan on "The Office" is the same as the incarnation on "The Wire". The two shows couldn't be more different, but by harnessing herself Ryan has vaulted herself into an already memorable career.

[Author's Note: I am having trouble turning the italics on and off so I keep losing my train of thought due to some onset of OCD]

I've recently rewatched the Goals to Life, the film friends and I made when I was seventeen. It isn't a great film, but it resonates due to the purity behind it. We weren't setting out to do something great. We were just putting ourselves on screen. Isn't that what art is?

There is a fear of doing bad work. There is a fear of financial failure. Worst of all there is the fear of never sipping ice cold Pina Coladas atop the golden Ziggurat.

Fuck all that. The only vehicle we have is ourselves and the sooner we acknowledge that, the better.

Things that wouldn't be as good if they took self analysis/My favorite things in the world.

1. Barry Sanders
2. Young Eddie Murphy
   
3. Richard Brautigan's Poetry
   
4. Haruki Murakami
   
5. Appu Goundan
   
6. Paul Auster's Novels
7. Weezy F. Baby
   
8. Yelle
9. Matt Goodwin
10. Good Sportswriting
    

Things that seem to care that I love nonetheless

1. Super Bowl Pageantry
2. The Dark Knight
3. Raymond Carver
   
4. The Bee Gees

Now, who's ever gonna make a Dark Knight? Let it shower out people!

Sitcoms, Brock Alter, and the New American Dream (Brock Alter not guaraneed to be included) A Guest Post by Appu Goundan

[Editor's Note: I was going to post something but had to go to the bathroom, Appu then ousted control of this blog from me.]

Sitcoms are a great american invention. They were invented in the 1880's when someone discovered that putting together two words to make one word was socially acceptable. Jermaine O'Donnell is credited with creating the word sitcom while discussing a new play for the theatre of broadstreet. In his small New York apartment, him and his friend, Mork Milano, wrote the first sitcom using a rotating stage with help from the Ford motor company. This was a way to switch between scenes quickly.

Not only was their idea a flop, lasting only 3 showings, but they were arrested for witchcraft, and the Ford Motor Company denied any knowledge of the magical stage switcher and refused to provide a lawyer to their clients. Historians now believe the general public was not ready for them, as their brains were not wired for such intense comedy and fake laughter. Some like Mike Fitzpatrick who was alive to see the first showing now recall the moment and laugh about it. Sitcoms only really regained popularity in the 1940's with the invention on television and discovery that foreigners were actually allowed to be on television.

The new millenium brought us people failing out of elementary school because of excessive car exhaust inhilation and high fructose corn syrup. This led to an overall dumbing of the population and a loss of interest in sitcoms. Reality television, the toilet of television industry suddenly became immensely popular as it let people brain crap all over themselves. But thanks to some new and great sitcoms (arrested development), the great american sitcom is seeing a return. alright peace out.

HALLELUJAH!!!!!!!!!!!

[Author's Note: Yeah, this is a Sport's post. A rhythm of Walkowski-esque parlance littered with curse words such as "throw", "catch", and "football". I realize Sports are a fleeting thing, as temporary as the American Civilization and our grandiose monuments. Nearly as short lived as our time on Earth. (If you don't know, everyone turns to dust someday) We're here. Earth is a bounty of boundless opportunities, yet we spend our time merely surviving (or thriving if you're lucky enough not to give a fuck). The endless potential of Earth has yet to strike us. Wouldn't you know it? Most of us are needing some distraction from the ultimately pointless, the mole on our mate's neck, the lack of money in our bank account.

I'm ashamed of this, but writing the last sentence prompted the involuntary reaction of opening the Bank of America home page. Commerce, commerce, nothing but commerce. Spend, spend, spend. ]

My distraction is Sports, the exalting heroics of professional athletics. In September, when the leaves crisp and fall to the ground, my primary distraction is Football. Specifically the NFL, more specifically the Detroit Lions.

Today at 7:16:05 am, I was awoken by a text message. The custom ring of me saying "Gobble gook gook boble gobble bobble" sang into my ear. I would've ignored the sound years ago, but now I am a bastion of the digital-open source-let's all be interconnected-share everything-and never be alone-even for a moment- era. I woke up and checked the text.

It came from an unknown source. Upon further i.e. awake research, the sender was revealed to be none other than David Scaramucci, the brother of one of my good friend John, and a friend himself in his own, extremely David, way.

Here is a picture of him on his father's horse.

I can not over state the importance of the Scaramucci Family. Over the years I've taken them for countless dinners, basketball tickets, and simply put- a humble place to hang my hat. They've done an incredible amount, but this morning's fleeting text message was among their best. "No more Millen." it read.

I'd been dreaming of Matt Millen's dismissal for three plus years. I didn't need to verify the news, opting to sit up in bed and scream "MATT MILLEN GOT FIRED!" Nick, peacefully slumbering a few feet away, immediately sat up, wide awake and eager to take on the day.

"NO WAY!" he screamed.

I sent that same text to David. At the exact juncture where a response was necessary, I received a text message from David reading "Yes Way!"

"YES WAY!" I screamed to Nick.

I fell back to bed, dreaming the Lions would somehow woo Bill Cowher and that I'd end up as his neighbor a la my experiences with Roy Williams.

******

I was born in 1986, I started cheering for the Lions in 1992. They weren't a good team but that was of no importance when your tail back was Barry Sanders, the exuberant sprite who darted past defenses with a barrage of moves that have never and will never be performed by a human being again. Every other year they would seemingly will themselves into contention, only to experience a heart breaking loss in the playoffs. December 30, 1995... Lomas Brown guaranteed a win versus Philadelphia. A few Rodney Peete interceptions later... Eagles 58 Lions 37. We were a great team in the NFL that year, but not in the playoffs.

The game happened just after Christmas. Mom and I trekked out to a local toy store to return the R/C car I had no interest in for an electric football game. America was fairly prosperous at this time so after exchanging my game, Mom did what she did best, tacking on an extra errand to a routine day out. We went to Gardner White Furniture, the Lions and Eagles were playing to determine who would go on to face the mighty Dallas Cowboys, a far superior team, but one that we frankly had their number.

I sat down for kick off, placing my plump kid body on a cushy couch. A salesman came up and switched the Gardner White television to a promo. I shot up from my seat, grabbing the salesman by the coattails, "Don't you know the Lions are in the Playoffs?" I told him.

He put the TV on, before I knew it, it was 31-7.

Before I knew it, Barry Sanders retired, taking the teetering timid runs that were his specialty out of his rotation. The 1999 team was good enough to garner a wild card loss.

The 2000 Lions squad was good, I just knew it. They were on the cusp of the playoffs, needing only a win against the Chicago Bears. The game didn't sell out so it was blacked out locally. I incessantly asked my parents if we could drive to Cleveland and watch the game at a local watering hole (this was especially insensitive considering my father was a recovering alcoholic). They always said no, giving the feeble excuse that "we had to go shopping on Sunday". On Sunday, My father, myself, and Boon our Thai exchange student who learned to love the Lions piled in the car. We went along I-75. The jig was up when we passed the malls.

"Where are we going?" I asked my Dad.

"We're going shopping." he told me with a smile.

I always knew my parents were softies.

My Dad drove past the malls, ignoring our pleas to "stop and shop" and into Pontiac, Michigan home of the Detroit Lions. We passed L'Ellis Restaurant and I made the same joke I always did: "Hey there's Luther Elisses restaurant!" My Dad and Boon laughed. Boon didn't know much English and my Dad was in too good of a mood. Who could blame him? The Lions were playing! They were a contender! A win would get them in the playoffs, all they had to do was beat the Bears. We pulled into one of the adjacent parking lots to the Pontiac Silverdome. Boon, my Thai brother, couldn't contain his excitement. "We gonna see Johnnie Morton!" Johnnie Morton was his favorite football player. In addition to being our primary receiving option, he was the only Detroit Lion of Asian descent.

It was a tightly contested the entire way through. The Lions seemingly sent the game into overtime on a Jason Hanson field goal with little under two minutes left. It transcended language and culture. Boon and I leapt into the air and hugged. We kept our embrace and kept jumping up and down. Even my Dad, the stoic saintly type, was invested. This might be the only time I've seen him yell. He caught my eye and hugged the hell out of me. Why not? It was time to let go. THE LIONS SENT THE GAME INTO OVERTIME! THEY WOULD SURELY WIN, MAKE THE PLAYOFFS, AND MAYBE EVEN WIN THEIR PLAYOFF GAME!

Unless the Bears managed to score. But that was no worry.

The Bears had an anemic offense and Cade McNown (one of the biggest NFL busts & douchebags in history) as their quarterback. Statistically, it made no sense, but Cade McNown marched the Bears into field goal territory. With two seconds left, Paul Edinger hit a 54-yard field goal, the longest of his career.

The Lions lost. They failed to make the playoffs. In NFL ideology they might as well have been 0-16. Fail to make the playoffs and you're mediocre...at best.

Acting swiftly and suddenly, the Lions decided it was time to blow things up. Owning a professional football team is no small endeavor. However, it's a glamorous job and offers easy access to any and everyone who might be of service to a Professional Football Team. There are more than Six Billion People in the world, among the throngs, the Detroit Lions hired Matt Millen as their seer of football operations.

It seemed like such a good decision. He was a proven winner as a player and didn't drool all over the microphone in the broadcast booth. Hindsight is of course twenty-twenty. There's nothing to do but tear Millen a new asshole these days, poor guy is nothing but sphincters at this point. The day he was hired? I was ecstatic, certain he'd lead my Lions to a Super Bowl! Sure he was commuting from Pennsylvania and wore ridiculous sweater vests, but even I'd heard of an idiot savant.

My enthusiasm was so high that my parents finally made the leap to ultimate fandome. We got season tickets to the Lions!

Things going in the 2001 Lion's Favor to a a Fifteen-Year-Old

1. They were 9-7 last year. They almost made the playoffs and all key starters returned.
   
2. We hired Marty Morninweg to be our head coach. He came from the then fabled stable of Green Bay coaches, the NFL's fountain of brilliance. Any coach who came from Green Bay was automatically a winner. Better still, he drove a motorcycle. There was a famous incident where he walked out of practice and drove off on his Harley. I thought this was a great omen, ignoring the fact that leaders should probably attend their own meetings.
   
3. We drafted a Tackle from Michigan!
   
4. We installed the holy West Coast Offense and had the receivers to make it work.
   

The season got off to a rocky start. After a loss to Green Bay, the Lions benched starting quarterback Charlie Batch, the official non-threatening black guy of the NFL, for Ty Detmer, a Mormon. I didn't agree with the move. I had too much fun imitating Charlie's flattened inflection.

Detmer threw seven interceptions in his first game, producing my first instance of claiming I could perform better than a pro athlete and the last instance in which my claims were true.

An 0-2 start was a big hole, but I'd seen the Lions go up and down before, I knew they'd reel off a miraculous string of wins to attain mediocrity at the very least. The first home game of the season was up after the bye. The St. Louis Rams, the greatest show on turf, were coming to town to play lightning-quick electricity infused football. With the game being the NFL's Monday Night Game, I knew the Lions would put on a show for me. I deserved it for going and staying out so late on a school night.

35-0 Rams. The crowd left before half-time. Dad and I watched the second half from the first row. Football sounds great up close in an empty stadium.

The Lions went on losing and losing. They became a staple of Jay Leno's monologue. The season's high point came after our first win when Johnnie Morton proclaimed "Jay Leno can kiss my ass" and received an invite onto the show.

They beat the Cowboys in the last game of the regular season. This was of no significance but I won twenty dollars from Brandon Hool. They finished 2-14. We didn't renew our season tickets. Who could blame us? The team was lousy and our seats were behind a pole.

New Year's Day 2002. Dad and I went to Grandma's Condo to eat cheese loaf watch the bowl games. A fierce, virile woman she never lapsed into anything close to senility. She was transfixed by the bowl games, in particular Joey Harrington, a fresh-faced Quarterback who zipped the deep ball and played piano with equal proficiency.

"I won't be here long, but I wish I could stay to watch that one in the Pros. He's gonna be a great one."

Grandma was such a wise old sage.

Relevance was on it's way-albeit only in the Architectural Sense. The Lions moved from Pontiac into Ford Field a castle of exposed brick and Hollywood lights nestled into the heart of Downtown Detroit in another feeble attempt at urban revival. The stage was set, all we needed was a Superstar to step into the light and soak up our adulation.

Brando was cast in the lead. With the 3rd pick of the 2002 draft the Lions selected Joey Harrington, a man who'd been on a seven-story Times Square billboard in college! He burst into Detroit as the next savior of our moribund franchise. His eloquence and optimism were enough to tempt even the most tortured of fans. In his first start, Joey threw four touchdown passes! The rest of the seasons gave him some bumps and bruises but his promise warranted an appearance on the cover of Sports Illustrated, a magazine I'd been getting since I was eight.

Then he got an irregular heart beat and missed the rest of the season. He immediately fell into local disdain. My friend Brandon worked at the local grocery store and stole Harrington's phone number of his discount club card application. Prank calling Joey became an immediate sensation, his digits spreading through his school faster than the school slut's.

It might have been the prank calls, maybe it was the faulty valve, but Joey was never the same player. Too bad it took another three years to realize this.

A 3-13 finish afforded the Lions the second pick in the Draft. We selected Charles Rogers, a lanky piece of athleticism from Michigan State University. Considered the most promising wide receiver prospect of the decade, it was assumed he would pair with Harrington to build a steeple built out of touchdown passes.

The Lions made another off season splash by signing two St. Louis Rams, Dre Bly, a cocky corner, and Az-Zahir Hakim, the NFL's fastest player. Within weeks of the signing, Hakim's jersey became the apparel of choice for Muslim kids at my school.

In Millen we trusted. He fired Marty Morningweg and hired Steve Mariucci, a Michigan Native and returning hero. After a rearing in Iron Mountain and a triumphant stretch at Michigan State University (where his friendship with Spartans Hoops Coach Tom Izzo is considered their Romeo & Juliet), he became not just a great coach but a mother fuckin' wunderking. He'd turned the San Francisco 49ers into a title contender and promised to do the same for the Lions. You'd have to be a fool not to trust Slick Haired Steve and his arsenal of Italian derring-do.

Rogers appeared to be everything advertised- for the first two games. In the fifth he broke his collarbone and missed the rest of the season. The next year, he broke the other collarbone on the season's first drive, knocking him out for the year. During his convalescence, he tested positive for street drugs and was suspended. He was never the same player, but unlike Harrington who was openly tortured about his failures, Rogers was probably too coked up to notice.

I was used to losing by now, but I knew it was only a matter of time before things turned around. This was confirmed on the last game of the season when the Lions faced the mighty Rams. Behind Joey the Lions surged to a 20-30 upset. The announcers echoed by opinion exactly: "This is a great team announcing itself."

I ran up stairs to one of our Goals to Life film shoots. "A GREAT TEAM IS ANNOUNCING ITSELF" I shouted to Steve and Dan. They shook their heads in confusion. Neither of them liked football or had any idea who the Lions were. This is striking to remember as Dan will now does whatever he can to turn the conversation to football.

2003 Detroit Lions Highlights

A. Christmas Eve found Mr. Dan Lawlor and myself rollicking around our suburban playground in our cherished 1993 Mercury Villager with bales of hales instead of seats. Our adventures brought us a five dollar pizza (a Detroit area staple) that we ate on the curb. We then went to WalMart to cause a general ruckus. A football called out from the toy aisle "play with me". Dan and I tossed it back and forth. Dan's errant throw pushed the football into the display. It rolled across the tile. I picked the ball up, held it in front of my genitals and proclaimed "I'm Joey Harrington."
"What?"
"He's too busy playing with his dick to play football."
I threw the ball to Dan. He held the ball in front of crotch.
"I'm Joey Harrington"
He tossed it back.
"I'm Joey Harrington"
And the greatest inside joke in American Friendship History was born. Over the next year countless items were held before countless crotches before the person exclaimed "I'm Joey Harrington" to a chorus of raucous laughter.
Nothing was exempt. People, musical instruments, and even automobiles were held before crotches to the tune of "I'm Joey Harrington."
If you listen closely on a quiet winter's eve, you can hear "I'm Joey Harrington" whistling past.
B. On Thanksgiving Day we went to my Sister and Frank's for breakfast. I accidentally put Salt instead of sugar in my coffee. Dad and I walked to Ford Field and watched the Thanksgiving game- a victory over the Packers. I could taste the salted coffee in my mouth the entire time.
C. We had a goofy white receiver named Bill Shroeder.
D. 5-11. It counted as progress.

I headed over to Nick's house to watch the first game of the 2004 season, spoiled by the recent Pistons championship, our approach to sports was fresh and idealized. Charles Rogers was knocked out in the first possession, but he was soon forgotten. The legend had arrived.

Roy Williams, the seventh overall pick in the 2004 draft played receiver well enough at Texas to earn the nickname "Legend". His first career catch was an impossible teetering one hander near the sideline. Nick and I looked at each other, our jaws touching the damn ground.

And also? The Lions won!

The next game? They won that too! Roy caught two touchdowns!

Undefeated to start the season, we headed into a match-up with the also undefeated Philadelphia Eagles, a team we looked upon as the measuring stick. Nick and I looked forward to the game all week, but our first professional video opportunity came up. We drove to Flint, picked up a lady from a strip-mall, and ended up getting death threats for our efforts. We didn't have time to watch the game, but we had a hot tape at home, burning to be watched.

It was a crushing defeat 30-13 but Roy stood out among the wreckage. On one play he caught a routine pass before turning it into the extraordinary. He broke seven tackles and spun around three times on the play. This was a man to watch!

Someone bought me a shirt reading "Got Roy?" with his sprawled football-snaring silhouette on the front.

That's when the real excitement hit. Roy lived in our neighborhood. He rode his Escalade and moped down the street just like a normal person. He bought two stone Lions and parked them in front of his house.

It was too much to take. Dan, Nick, and I bought a greeting card with a unicorn on it from a gas station. We wrote a thank you note and warned "Don't break your collar bone." Mustering all our courage we marched right up to Roy's door and knocked.

He opened the door, taking a moment to look us over before resuming his Madden Football game.

"Come on in guys."
"Hey Roy, I know this is kind of weird but we're huge Lions fans and just wanted to thank you. We got you this card."
"Thanks man."
"If you ever want to play pick-up football we play all the time and could use another receiver."

We stood awkwardly in his foyer. I had him sign my t-shirt and we left. It was glorious. The hero lived right down the block. Close enough to visit or at least rummage through his garbage. (Not that I'd ever do that. Who'd want to know that a certain athlete doesn't eat his pizza crust).

Roy became our favorite athlete that day. His Fathead sticks proudly on our living room wall. In the years since Roy has evolved into a comic figure famed for working as a pizza delivery boy, hosting a talk show with teammates, and not tipping the pizza crusts. (Why should he? They don't bother to cut off the crusts!)

Our brush with success was fleeting we finished 6-10, the Harrington myth was beginning to crumble, but that didn't matter with Roy.

The Lions possessed yet another high draft pick, choosing Big Mike Williams, an oversized wide out from the University of Southern California. Picking another receiver was an unprecedented move but it prompted John and I to run outside and emulate Mike Williams. It didn't matter that he hadn't played a game for us or that we were college freshman, it was a new era.

The 2005 season brought another batch of futility. We hired Mike Martz, the greatest offensive mind in football, to run our offense. It didn't help. It stood still and languished to a 5-11 finish.

The seat grew hot under Matt Millen. Local fans organized the "Millen Man March" at the Lion's last home game. Fans were urged to walk out of the game before half time and come to protest. Nick and I dressed as farmers and held signs outside the stadium with signs reading "Millen for Mayor" and "Millen is a Vampire." This was an unprecedented move for laissez-faire American fans. It was a sign that we'd take no more. It was also the day I missed an opportunity to feed a camel out of my hand.

Calls came for Matt Millen's head. He had the worst winning percentage of any NFL team during a five year span. This was of course rewarded with a contract extension.

The 2006 season was of no significance, other than Mike Williams eating himself out of the NFL.

2007 came. We picked another receiver deemed as "the greatest prospect of his generation" in Calvin Johnson, dubbed "Megatron" by the acerbic wit of Roy Williams. Rumors of trading Roy began to circulate. I vowed to cheer for another team if he was traded.

Our excitement blossoms each September, when a blemish free schedule shoots hope and optimism past logic and reason. Nick, Dan, and I headed up to Oakland for the season opener. We were the only Lions fans in the place. Walking through the parking lot before the game, things came to a standstill as thousands of Raider fans stopped to hurl epithets and bottles at us. It didn't help that I wore a Lions Santa Hat and a balloon.

The Lions did well in the beginning of the game prompting chants of "Fuck Detroit" we gleefully joined along with. The Lions earned a stirring come from behind victory but we had to leave early when a beer bottle narrowly missed us and struck a child, sparking a fist fight.

Walking back to the car a fan spotted my colors and told me "you're still fucking terrible." Raiders fans could be so stupid.

The Lions continued their hot start to 6-2 and an inside track to the playoffs. I was seeing them in the rosiest of lenses, it didn't even bother me that our Quarterback Jon Kitna was a religious zealot who converted half the team to Christianity. His preseason guarantee of 10 wins was looking damn good, the Defense was clicking, snagging turnovers at an alarming rate. The season reached a high water mark when Shaun Rogers, a 400 pound defensive tackle, returned a fumble 60 yards for a touchdown and celebrated by pretending to eat a turkey.

Maybe there was a God after all. Maybe he was merciful, bestowing sudden wisdom to Millen and arm strength to Kitna. It was a winning football team. The range of power polls uniformly ranked them as a top-ten team.

We lost seven of our last eight. Nick, Bryan, and I went to San Diego to see them take on the Chargers. They lost 51-14. All was not lost though, Pete a 60 something man rolled down seven rolls of seats in front of us, hooting&hollering&tossing his full beer at a woman in the process.

We went home for Christmas break and found ourselves at the Lions last home game. It wasn't worth it to cheer for our team, so Detroit Dream Team shirts were fashioned. We could use our imagination to put the best football players in the world on Detroit. My shirt was Manning. Nick's was Tomlinson. Chris' was Houshmandzadeh.

We won the game, finishing at 7-9, our best finish of the Matt Millen era.

2008

We were blown out three times to start the season. Nick turned catatonic after the last loss, hopelessly wishing he hated the Lions.

Then it happened. The tumor has gone off to dear sweet exile. The rest of the season might be cast as a mere exhibition season, but as a Lions fan I exalt in the experience. Quality football has long ago exited my imagination. Football is not a game played for victories, the strange story lines and the occasional great play were enough to get by.

Staying up late this past Sunday Night, I considered my relationship to the Detroit Lions. Like a girl you let hang around too long, they stopped seeming like a viable threat of anything. They won't knock me off my feet but if I keep a good smiling perspective, they'll be worth my effort. When I think of the Lions, I see a minor league team, a lovable gang of screw ups, head cases, and goof balls, headed by an in way over his head General. They're the perfect B movie plot, the Jamaican Bobsled team of the NFL with Matt Millen as our John Candy.

I came to terms with this, looking forward to a lifetime reminiscing about Paper Lion and Barry Sanders. I was never going to get invested again...

Then the unthinkable happened. Matt Millen was fired.
It won't change the immediate future, but I know the franchise cares, harboring at least some delusions of grandiose nature. They want to win? The Ford Family actually gives a fuck? Well, I'll be damned.

Three days after acceptance, I was back at square one. I'm on board with the Lions, my favorite professional football team. I'm free to see the brighter side of football and not just the foibles and follies wrought by ineptitude.

I put my paper bag away wondering if hope is indeed a good thing.

ZITOMANIA: HOLLYWOOD STYLE!!!!!

[Author's Note: I went to a Los Angeles Dodgers game on Friday. The bastion of cruelty that is the Dodgers waited until 80 minute before the first pitch to open the Stadium,  and prohibited the Padre (Catholic) and I from getting autographs from our favorite megalomaniac baseball superstars. Since the heathen Dodgers were playing the apathetic Giants O' San Francisco, we were blessed with seeing Barry Zito, the official baseball player of the NewHindenburg, pitch in a real live major league game. 

Whether you love or hate sports Zito's story is a tale for you. It is a tale of pure humanity. Though best described by Pat Jordan, I will try to give a peanut shell of his career. Barry was a decent prep pitcher as groomed by his father. His vaunted curveball garnered him astint at UC Santa Barbara which turned into a baseball scholarship at the University of Southern California where he parlayed his vaunted curveball into status as a vaunted pitcher. He was selected three times in the major league baseball draft, with his status rising every time, going from the 159th-9th-1st rounds.  He finally signed with the Oakland Athletics after being the ninth overall pick. 

Barry turned into a superstar. By many accounts, he was the best pitcher in baseball. His curveball led to three all-star games and a Cy Young in 2002. Perhaps more intriguingly, Barry was aided by the Eastern Philosophies of his mother (who started her own religion) and his father (who taught Barry pitching). 

His legend grew. Tall tales (that were later proven false) of Barry as a surfer surfaced. Other tales (of the true variety) spread of his ardent guitar playing and Yoga. 

Barry turned his curve and quirk into the largest contract ever signed by a pitcher. A seven year 124 million deal with the San Francisco Giants. After signing, Barry promptly turned to the toilet, performing like a fringe major leaguer and losing his curve. 

In a low point for Zito, the professional fashion model, last October I was confused for Zito at a Los Angeles Mall. A man who'd taken songwriting classes with Zito and his sister came up and barraged me with questions about the curve and Sheryl Crow.  I am fairly tall and have brown hair but am seven or eight steps from the degree of handsome possessed by Zito. 

Zito bungled the 2007 season and much of the 2008, but has been turning things around in recent days. Friday he held the Dodgers to one run in eight innings, which qualifies as a stellar performance by almost all barometers. 

In a NewHindenburg exclusive we reveal how Mr. Zito celebrated his return to greatness.

DODGER STADIUM- DODGER STADIUM- NIGHT 

Barry Zito, 30, enters the clubhouse drenched in sweat, a martini in hand. Several teammates play PlayStation3 at an oversized console. Barry approaches and turns down the volume without asking. Barry waltzes to his locker, pausing only for a celebratory pirouette. 

Arriving at his locker, Barry removes all his clothes until he is completely naked. Upon achieving nudity, he looks around the locker room for impressed looks, before turning back to his locker. He takes out a cell phone, dialing contentedly. 

Barry: Hi Michael. 

Michael Clarke Duncan: Hey... uh who is this? 

Barry: Oh hey Mike, this is Barry Zito, transcendentalist superstar. 

MCD: Now what the hell's transcendentalist? 

Barry: It means that God is completely outside of this world. 

MCD: Now what the fuck do I care about that for?

Barry: Well, you asked... dude. 

MCD: You shoulda known I didn't give a fuck in the first place. I don't even know who you are Tiny Tip Toe

Barry: My name doesn't matter. What matters is our essence. Do you have an essence Michael? 

MDC: Only after I eat a lot of pork. You'll find an essence of me where ever I go. 

Barry: I see. Would you like to pick up Hollywood starlets tonight? 

MCD: No? 

Barry: No?

MCD: No. 

Barry: Are you sure? I'm Barry Zito, the is he or isn't he a great pitcher pitcher in all of major league baseball. I know women and women and women love potential. How bout you pick me up outside Dodger Stadium in twenty and we can go cruise for some fine celebrity tail?

MCD: That sounds cool. 

Barry: Great. 

Barry hangs up. 

Barry (announcing to the entire Giants clubhouse): Guess who's fucking Tea Leoni tonight? 

*One Hour Later* 

Barry waits in the rain outside Dodger Stadium. A single cloud hangs overhead. 

You Will Never Be Batman...

There comes a point in life. Certain realizations come with it. Maybe you feel small. Maybe you start trading something called "Gravity Rocks" over the internet. (For those of you left in want by the concept of Gravity Rocks, they are a type of rock that levitates upon striking a rock of similar composition. The mere idea might make your heart go a pitter and a patter but I'm afraid they do not exist.) At this point, one might deign to grow up. 

Firmly ensconced on the cusp of  supposedly "growing up" I have taken great care to understand what the aging process entails whilst fighting it with every fiber of my mortal coil. This is not an effort put forth on my behalf, just something that happens in the pursuit of dumb mindless fun a la spinning around in circles until falling over and/or vomiting. 

Though I've succeeded in not getting car insurance, worries, and sexually transmitted diseases (note to self: YES!), I have grown up after all, at least according to one of my professors. He is pear shap[ed, rude, but a bastion of wisdom nonetheless. Preaching on about Modernism he implores us to realize the meaninglessness of it all. He does so quite effectively. 

So effectively, I can't say I disagree. 

In the grandest grand scheme of planets and things I am meaningless, you are meaningless, even Marvin Gaye is meaningless. (Though I'll argue about his transcendence any time) Accepting your meaninglessness, your utter lack of efficacy on the world, takes a good deal of pride swallowing. Many of your ambitions, if not compromised, will exist in the accompaniment of a winking grain of salt that advises "even if you do it all, reach the pantheon, and capture the stars, all will be forgotten in time". These words sting, but only because they're so inarguably true. 

Words of this nature, like a tragic scary event, will send most folks scurrying to either ambition or chaos. Make the best of your time or disregard it. We can see this manifested in the attitudes of the buttoned up attitude of the business world and the depraved dismissal of bottom of the  barrel drug dealers and users. (On a tangent: I will put users above dealers any day. They just want to feel really good. The world is a hard place. If you fail to find your place, why not feel as good as you possibly can?)

Thought: I could die anytime between now and the year 2100

It is such a fleeting parade. As soon as a day passes we fail to remember the events, joy, and difficulties that made up the twenty-four hour span. If I desire to make the most of it I might as well lash out and do as much as I can. What can I do? 

A) Set a cop car on fire and wag my wiener at inner city kids. 

B) Tutor inner city kids and attempt to write the Great American Novel. 

There isn't much of a safety net for us. Do you realize how many people are insane in America? Disregarding our own tendencies and going by sole statistics, any of us could fly of the handle at any moment. Also, given the tendencies (especially at the Violence Capital that is the University of Southern California) any of us could die at any moment, perishing without notice, clutching to vestiges while imploring the heavens for just one more fucking day to eat, sleep, and be human. 

Fuck yeah, it's meaningless. I could be dead by the time you read this. As it stands, the world is getting scarier and scarier. I did a noble deed earlier this week. A woman was getting beaten in the street and after thirty seconds of watching and soul searching I managed to say something... Given recent events... I wouldn't say shit. If I get in that situation again, I hope I'll jump in and do something, but fear is quite a thing to contend with... 

You hope to be a good man. 

You hope to do great things.

Then you grow up and realize how hard it is to be a good man and do great things. 

We can't be scared. If I get in that situation again, I don't care if I get killed, I'll stand up and at least try to do something. I probably won't fight, jump in, or scream, but at the very least I'll say something. Getting pushed towards the chaos spectrum of things is all too tempting, but it's the easy way out. We can't compromise who we are... not for what we want, not for what we know, not for what we've seen. In the meaningless of things we owe it to ourself to stay stridently true to the essence of our persons. 

I woke up late today. I've been keeping quite busy so a little rest was quite the relaxant. I swore before bed last night that I'd never been as fucked up as I was then, and I hadn't even had a drink in forty-eight hours. 

It was 11:30. I drove cross town from my home on 25th street to 125th street to get a package my Mom sent me. She's always had an extremely odd taste in packages, gifts, and other items left up to creativity. 

The package was sent to a retirement home. One of the patrons, a lovely woman named "Gina" called Thursday to tell me I had a package. It sat inside the door, emblazoned with the message "Jack will pick up Saturday morning." 

After explaining my name was Joel and that my name matched the shipping address I was given the package. I took it outside, the environment reminder me of Lake Huron back in Michigan. Feeling as free as I did in my youth spent at a cottage I opened the package on the hood of Nick's car... 

It was a Panini Maker. I'd never eaten a Panini in my life. I wasn't about to start now. 

Lon story short, I ate three Panini's today. My life, and the construction of these sandwiches, was a more joyful experience thanks to the Panini maker. Gourmet Italian food in my own home made me glad to be alive. I suppose that's all we can hope for from any one day. I also suppose that's why we want to fall in love: to get the experience of fresh Panini daily in human form. 

Thanks Mom! 

Fuck Chaos. It's Joy I chase. 

Str8 Up Drizzling

Hello Hindenburg, 

I suppose I haven't treated you that well lately. It must have been a long lonesome time for you and that's not even taking your cirrhosis into account. I didn't want to leave you this summer. I would have taken you with me if I could. I met a nine-year-old boy that fits right in with your perspective on shit. His name is Max, he wears transition lenses and has a blog if there is any justice in this rotten world. 

Sorry Hindy, but the narrative eludes me. I can only speak in bits tonight. I'll try to write you, my blog, a letter but I just gotta let it do what it wants to tonight.  You'll have to get your Gary Glitter analysis elsewhere. 

http://www.theonion.com/content/statshot/known_gary_glitter_aliases

Today I was feeling good. Life nipped at my nostrils offering the most tantalizing scents. I was so happy to be alive... I suppose that's natural. Ok. Why was today's special feeling such an especially special feeling... I was quite happy to fail today. I looked one of my heroes in the eyes, a man I admire and wish to emulate in my end all be all dreams. There I was, a cog in his grandiose give back, but I couldn't say a thing. 

I wasn't afraid. I was confused about what a millionaire would do with that much oatmeal. 

There might be a thing as too much free time. Yeah sure I'd like to write and toil for that goal but certainly not in such a warm room. If I knew about the temperature beforehand I would temper my ambition a percentage for each degree it was over eighty. I think it's reasonable. Depending on the day it'd only be a 6-10% downgrade (and that's only in the afternoon). 

When I encounter Older Males more than once I instantly want to become their friend. The local (I don't think there is a word for what he is. He sits in the back room of a dusty old corner store. He probably lives there. There is sometimes a wife and today there was a baby. He emerges from the back when I arrive, taking on a think American accent. I buy a Coca-Cola. He opens the bottle cap for me, taking great care to put it back on the coke) clerk is a good example. I would very much like it if he would come over, slather himself in shaving cream and scream "I AM CAESAR" before stabbing me in the leg with a pencil. 

I wouldn't like it at the moment, extracting graphite from my leg, but boy wouldn't that be a tale to tell at fifty. 

Life gets funny in a grips of a semester. I was thinking back to high school when we all made movies and didn't know how to have good sex. Nostalgia comes rose-colored. In my mind we're hard working creative creatures. Yeah, maybe we've changed but a key and wonderful thing of that accomplishment (and youth in general) is that you share a schedule with everyone you know. No one has much to do on Afternoons, no one has classes until 11:30, most importantly no one has a job that makes them value money over friendship.  A wealth of free time and a place to go... that's the back bone of so many dreams isn't it. 

I am currently interning at a place that tries to teach kids how much fun studying, hard work, and writing is. I don't think my mother could have come up with a better fit for me (although she's probably tried). I will inevitably complain about my utopia of the moment but I won't really be complaining, just giving the recount of my day a little bit of color. 

Today was one of my best days in a while but one of the least fun in terms of activities. Today was spent turning my duties into thrills. After having trouble with 5th grade math I had to go home. No one would be home or around when I got back so instead of taking the bus home I decided to run the 5 miles back. While the entire distance eluded me I managed to make it to Washington. Along my way as I got covered in sweat and called a "terrorist" not a single bus passed me on my trek back along the bus route. Such anger would've taken me if I were stuck waiting for the bus for thirty minutes. Great joy found me because I ran in slacks. The slacks deserve two-thirds of the credit. 

I couldn't run anymore. If I were to take another step I was certain diarrhea would explode from my bowels. I stopped running. One biological need quieted and another rose up: I was famished. This wasn't any ordinary hunger. A thunder rose from my gut, imploring me to eat like a man. The butcher gave me his thickest steak and called me "Amigo". I paid for my steak and remembered Nick's wish that everyone had the same butcher for their entire lives. 

 Arriving at my crayon colored abode the doors were locked and my keys were inside. A beacon bore into the crystalline dark of night from Appu's window, but nary a soul was around to control the beam or open the fucking door. [Author's Note: I really like that sentence.] In past situations of similar ilk I've broken windows or pouted on the porch. With my heart free and fluttery, I grilled the steak and ate it with my hands. 

I felt like I might have changed forever. I gnawed at my over cooked steak when Appu opened the door. I thought about staying outside and eating alone in the dark. I didn't. I went inside and we watched the show "Bones" together. The Dog Whisperer guest starred. 

Stories are every where. Amazing happens when we don't even realize it. David Boreanez isn't playing a vampire anywhere. So much is fascinating and hopeful that I'm becoming eager to see what this string of tomorrows will bring. Oh the very thought of it! 

Oh Hindy! I've been ignoring you. I came to this blog with an anecdote I wanted to share with you. I got so caught up in your process that I didn't bother. Rest assured you will forever live in my heart. 

Welcome to The Future!

Que sera, sera
Whatever we'll be we'll be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera, sera

I went to the Doctor today for routine maintenance. He was a routine Doctor, save for taking his loafers off as he questioned me. The questions were typical, ranging from the typical to the expected. I told him I didn't smoke cigarettes, of various exploits, and other orthodox answers expected from a college student. I did my best to be honest and respectful of the wealth of knowledge he accumulated during eight years of med school.

I was me. He was a doctor. He told me "it sounds like you're hanging out with the wrong crowd."

The wrong crowd? Never. Not in a million years. Not in sixty five million years. I would hang out with these people even with the threat of Tyrannosaurus Rex attack looming barely above us all. We'd stop our laughter and scatter in 8-10 different directions.

There is something wrong. Something missing. However, the conveniences of Modern Friendship are not to blame. I wanted to tell Doc about the wretched cesspool that is rapidly becoming the average existence. There is little palpable desire to learn, even less to work. We all strive for constant satisfaction, becoming weaker and weaker by the moment.

We get bored. We look for easy amusement. I've watched 13 hours of football in the past 48 hours because I care about it for some obtuse reason. Every down has been rehashed and analyzed by my feeble mind. I don't understand how or why I'm willing to commit so much. Even to Sports, something I love without resistance, I fail at paying attention.

The problem at hand isn't our youth. It's the culture created. With things getting faster and faster by the day, it is becoming more difficult to function, to create, to think. I've thought of the football, the basketball, the foibles, and felt a distinct sense of disgust. Not at myself, it's all felt so natural and wonderful. TO WIT: These gridiron gladiators are there for my worship! What a lucky boy am I!

Something is missing, at least I think. I don't believe evolution could have ever accounted for the current state of affairs. Back in the day, my Mom could rest easy after giving birth to a gigantic male heir. That ain't the case. We've got constant entertainment, food from around the globe at our fingertips, and even microwaves. With all these conveniences, the seemingly natural amenities, we cannot believe they are natural. Something weird is happening to each and everyone of us. The brain becomes shorted. The life certifiably mitigated.

Fuck it. Let's do something!

Nevermind. I gots to go watch TV.

AUUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tonight there will be a birthday party. It will be as any college birthday party. Cake will come in beer form, Lil' Wayne will be played, and half the guests will have fun while the others attempt to look cool. I'm not sure if they will succeed in looking cool. After all, nonchalance is the new black. Everyone looks good in it. 

It is a big night for me. I'm not expecting to get laid, paid, or spayed, but it's an epic night nonetheless. By having a party I hereby accept the fact that I will be twenty-two in the blink of an eye. 

When I was young and truly, resolutely Catholic, I learned about Magic Numbers. According to the Bible certain numbers hold a bit of mysticism within their meanings. School Teachers told me 3, 7, 10, and 40, were of the utmost importance to my burgeoning religion. 

I wasn't a good Catholic. I had my own ideas. Since I was able to grasp the concept of numbers and age, I've always looked at 22 as the most magical of ages. This, not 18, not 21, was when one became an adult. How did I figure this? Because that's when most basketball players started playing in the NBA (sorry for the reference everyone). As my childhood dream was to play in the NBA, I blindly assumed 22 would be the start of my adulthood. 

Dreams came and went. Director, Comedian, Writer. These dreams are still coming and going at four month rotations of ambition. Though dreams change, and boy do they dunking a basketball couldn't be farther away from making people laugh unless one murdered by way of the slam dunk. Through slight changes and edits to my own person, 22 has stayed in place as my idea of adulthood. This is the cusp of the rest of my life. I don't necessarily need to work or strive towards any specific ideal but I've always accepted this as the age where the rest of my experience becomes relegated to mere prologue. 

I realize this is a profoundly stupid and short-cited notion, but I can't control how I think about certain things. Tigers will always be a baseball team. Ravioli will always be a reward for practicing the flute as an eight-year-old. 22 will always be the beginning. 

I don't want to be 22. 

 

I can hearken back to childish fears and trepidation, but that would be a blow off. I'm not afraid of growing up. The reason I'm 22 is that I want to be 21 forever. This is not a plea for youth or sustainment of transitional indiscretions. I want to be 21 forever because 21 is going to be a hard year to beat. 

21 is the year Alcohol becomes legal for intake. In my case, 21 was when I became comfortable with myself and all that came with it. Life came into perspective, and for the first time the world seemed like such a beautiful place to live in. What a gift! Eating, sleeping, screwing, everything seemed like such a monumental gift from the Universe. To be a creature on this planet is to dine on a cornucopia of enjoyments. Pleasure is hidden in every required task of existence. It feels so good to be human. To run, to smile, to talk. 

And oh the talks! 

The past year consisted of fascination with sports, silliness, children, girls, & literature, but the aspect in which I was most blessed (perhaps more than anyone in the world) was my friendships. 

You don't need a friend to get up in the morning, but you sure as hell need one to enjoy the year. In more awkward years I'd look at others interact with their friends and feel jealous of the bonds they held. 

I'll never feel that way again. 

The people immediately surrounding me--you know who you are-- have indulged my attempts at humor, given me their world views, and made everyday an adventure. For the past 361 days, I was the luckiest person in the world to have you guys. When I needed to be held up, you did the job. When you needed the same, I hope I was up to the task. 

Such is my love for my current clique and surroundings that I may overstay my welcome.  I don't want to suck the life out of anything. Let's keep smiling, keep learning, and keep seeing each other for the first time. 

Thanks to you guys I've had an amazing year. Here's to another one. Let's throw footballs, go on missions, be camp counselors, dance our asses of, congregate around Jeff's altar, and eat delicious food. 

It's a wonderful life, thanks for making it so. 

When I think of my 21st year, no memories will stand out. This is not the result of being too blackout, but the by-product of having too much to choose from. A collage of laughter, games, endeavors, and smiling faces. 

This year has held a lifetime's worth of sweet sweet memories. So good we'll all get cavities. 

***** 

I meant this to be a forlorn and lonely post. I typed a weird and rambling intro before realizing that any portrayal of my life in anything but the happiest of lights would be an out and out lie. 

I love the world. I love you. 

-Joel