A Day in the Life

This post was totally going to be a huge and sweeping essay about Robocop but then the thesis fell apart and felt half baked. Don’t you hate when that happens? After McWriter’s masterful post last night, the last thing I wanted to do was present anything but my best. So much pressure, indeed.

Unfortunately, sometimes we cannot tap into our best, no matter how hard we try. Though I scrapped the Robocop essay, I cannot promise that this will be much better. I’m more excited to write it though.

Robocop will not be entirely absent from this post though. Instead I will present the moment and back story that inspired the aborted post.

As usually happens, I sauntered into work 10-15 minutes after my work day was to begin. I get good naturedly grilled by my manager and fellow co-worker (not the depressed one), about it. Then who should walk into my manager’s office, but none other than Huey. Quick back ground on Huey. He’s the library’s janitor and wears all white when he’s not working. He’s also one of the most kind and generous people I’ve ever met. Not to start three straight sentences the same way but he’s just an all around top notch person (see what I did there? I was totally going to start the sentence with “he’s” again). We talk about sports mainly, today’s no different, but as he’s on his way out for the day, the conversation will be brief and about the Lakers (as it normally is from October through June).

“So Sergei,” Huey says, “we’re going to talk about nicknames today. Laker nicknames.”

We run through a few: Trevor Ariza is “The Assassin”, Sasha Vujacic is “The Machine,” and Jordan Farmar is…well, no one really knows, but it probably has something to do with him being half Jewish. Then we get to the only Laker most people care about, Kobe Bryant.*

“And Kobe, do you know what his new nickname is?” Huey asks.

“The Black Mamba,” I offer up.

“Not anymore. Now they're calling him Robocop.”

Huey chuckles, as he is awesomely prone to do, and as I’m about raise objection to this obviously silly nickname, my co-worker jumps in.

“No way! Kobe Bryant is no Robocop,” she says before storming out of the office, obviously gravely insulted that anyone would even contemplate equating the Lakers on court leader to the robotic hero.

And that was that. Huey left for the apartment complex he manages in south central Los Angeles, I headed for my desk to turn on my computer, and my manager went back to eating her lunch. But the story doesn’t end there. Well it does, as far as that incident is concerned, but there’s still stuff to cover. And it has to do with my co-workers, disgust at Kobe being called Robocop. Obviously the nickname is a bit odd and kind of stupid—really what do the two even have to do with one another—but was my co-worker’s reaction warranted? Completely, if you know how she feels about Robocop.

You see my co-worker is in love with Robocop. I don’t just mean that she thinks he’s cool (like me and countless others the world over). Robocop is her ideal man.

Sometime last year, Nick and I got into a conversation with her about what kind of men she like’s. “I like them big,” she said. “Really built, huge muscles and everything.”

“Like Robocop,” Nick or I facetiously chimed in.

“Exactly. Like Robocop. Now there’s a man,” she said with the utmost honesty upon her face.

“But he’s a robot!!!” we wailed.

To my co-worker that doesn’t matter, because to her Robocop is the epitome of masculinity. Not just superficially either. As I’ve learned through conversations in the months since the initial disclosure, she loves everything about him; what he stands for, his inability—no refusal—to let go of his humanity, and, well, that body. There’s just no way around it, my co-worker is in love with Robocop.

And I think that is sort of amazing.

*I say most people only really care about Kobe because it's the truth. But me? My heart's with Lamar.

Listen... 

I did my last post before seeing recent scourges of Mr. McWriter. His presence on this here blog, this newhindenbugrian of NewHindenburgs makes me feel small, a quaker in the wake of sodomy. 

Please. Please. Please. Vanquish me. I never want to write again. Baseball's starting. For the longest time, I've abandoned this blog, I've kept posting, offering somewhat lyrical onslaughts on my bullshit but that ain't the game. Writing is fun. Sharing is fun. These things shouldn't feel like a burden. 

My life is so empty right now. Brock keeps calling me a housewife. I tell him I;m more than a housewife. I'd like to say "Motherfucker! I'm finishing a motherfucking novel but people don't read books anymore!:" Such sentiments would render my point as moot. I want to live or die. I want a corner. I want risk. Every time we get together people turn to a screen. I try my best to abstain. I type words instead. 

Youth is dead. 

Let's all buy vacuums and get wives.

Let's settle and settle and settle some more. 

I hate myself. 

Hey Friends

Lent is here. The time of repentance is nigh. A few years ago I put an ashen face smiley face on my face in celebration of Ash Wednesday. If I knew any girls, I'd whirl charm and words to become a true heathen. I guess I'm not up to that caliber and I find myself wanting to go to Church. I guess this is a...good thing? But the only churches around speak Spanish. 

I really want to hug my Mom right now. I want to slap my sister in the face...in a good way. 

Various things attract me but Catherine Keener's nose, swooping down in hawk-formed jewery gets me each and every time. It's half librarian, half school girl.

All I do is write, drink, do push-ups, and play sports. I gave up reading about sports for Lent. This is gonna be a long Lent. 

sooo much pressure!

it's over. my days of resting on my laurels knowing that everybody else only posts every once in a while. thinking that i can just write whenever i feel inspired to write. wrong. those days are long gone. we have entered the dynasty of sergei tortoise.

not to say of course that our fearless leader joel 'clean coal' walkowski's dynasty is over. far from it. he will always be my leader, having been the inviter to my invitee, the pusher to my taker, the biker to my...well, also biker. but joel is no longer the sole planet in this blogoverse with a few revolving satellites (namely, myself and jeff ze pen, though jeff ze pen has probably upgraded from satellite status as well). the blog is real now. it has a collection of styles, a harmony of voices, a whole goddamn school of fish, if you will. as my best friend in high school used to say to our opponents at the free throw line during NIC-9 basketball games: "SOOO MUCH PRESSURE!"

i like to think he said it at least 50% ironically. i mean, come on. a free throw in a high school basketball game in northern illinois? in the larger scheme of things, the pressure would hardly register. but he said it (screamed it! along with my other best friend always yelling to the referee: "hey ref, watch 3 in the key!" even when it's obvious there was no 3 second violation. it's all the get in their heads man!) anyway, and sometimes it worked. so much pressure. i think we can all relate to that. but i know what you're saying to yourself. you're saying to yourself "dammit mc_____, enough with this whole 'big picture' philosophy, let's talk about women!" well i'm sorry, i cannot oblige you. these late night examinations of self that i indulge in more than occassionally are the only things that keep me grounded in reality. if i didn't think about the big picture, i would have killed myself in high school. it's wayyy too easy for people, especially me (at least i think so), to get caught up in the everyday shenanigans and lose their minds. but who's to say i haven't lost it already? i mean, look at me! i don't even use capital letters!

i've sort of been keeping it a secret (well, not a secret, but i haven't told anybody about it, so i guess yeah, a secret) but i recently joined twitter. i'm not sure why i kept it a secret, or didn't tell anyone about it, but i think it has to do with the recently fashionable opposition to online social networking. you know. "oh you have a TUMBLR? what are you GAY?" or "i shut off my facebook because i found it too stifling to my creativity." or "i only subscribe to LinkedIn, because it's real. all those other social network sites have totally sold out." and to that i say 'get off your high horses, you fat turkeys!' but until just now i was saying 'perhaps you're correct, so i will hide my twitter in shame so i do not fall to the ridicule of my peers.' twitter is a strange beast. while exceedingly simple, it's impossibly intimidating at the same time. there's an entire lingo, culture, and protocol to using it correctly, and that alone would be enough for me to hesitate in attempting to wrangle it to my whims, even without the attached social stigma. but i'm trying, and now it's out there, in the open, so maybe now i'll have some people to talk to on it. but no pressure.

another great story: now i consider myself a fairly laid back dood. i don't get caught up in people's shit (see 'big picture', above), i try to play the peacemaker when things get out of hand, and i try not to worry about what other people think of me. but this weekend was a true test of my laidbackitude. now my job calls for a semi-annual meeting (called "semi-annual." campus cruiser is not a creative enterprise) once a semester to give everyone new numbers and go over policies and new stuff that will be happening and such. and cruisers being who they are (the bottom of the barrel of the work study society, being that we work, but never study. but god how i love 'em!) there is traditionally what we call a "mixer" the night before every semi-annual. these "mixers" often last literally all night, given that campus cruiser runs until 3am nightly, with the intention of letting those poor souls who work the latest a chance to join in the festivities. so this "mixer" fell on a friday, with the "semi-annual" being on saturday at noon.

friday night was a big night for me. there was a birthday party for a screenwriter friend of mine downtown, which brock and i attended via bicycle. the bar was loud, crowded, and expensive, but fun nonetheless. i made a comment to brock about how all the yelling would be the end of my social abilities the next day (read: i was gonna lose my voice, fo sho). after bidding the very wasted birthday girl adieu, we rode home, where i found nico, fresh from a truly crappy day of shooting his film. i drunkenly told him how much i loved him and how he was the one that was going to make it because he's the best of all of us (while quickly--quickly--downing two more vodka tonics). needless to say, i was six ways to sunday already by this point. but the "mixer" awaited.

i had promised some of the few friends i have at cruiser that i would make an appearance, and by this point in the night i was riding so high on the depressant that is alcohol that i was game for anything. i hopped back on the bicycle and headed to the "mixer." i immediately headed to the gaming table. the gaming table being where everyone is gathered playing quarters or some such bullshit. i loudly announced my presence and was met with minor fanfare. despite being a (very) senior cruiser, i know few of the newer people, who seemed to mostly populate this party. but a few true cruisers knew me and gladly welcomed my drunken ass. the game changed to flip cup. a challenge was issued from younger cruisers to the older cruisers. i realize that referring to us as "cruisers" gives us a certain connotation, but alas, that's what we are.

a side note to protect what little pride i have left (you'll understand by the end of the story): flip cup is not my game. i'm not that great at it.

the flip cup game ends in tears. not literal tears. but the sort of tears you get after chugging beer so quickly you dry (wet?) heave and still end up losing. yes, we lost. multiple times. that's when things get hazy. i recall finding myself in the kitchen over a fresh red solo cup of vodka and coke and shrugging to myself thinking "eh, why not?"

flash forward (which is what it felt like to me) to next morning: i am lying on the floor in my spider-man boxers (a true sign that it's approaching laundry day. why oh why didn't i do laundry before the "mixer"?!) on the third floor of a house i didn't know had a third floor. my clothes are in a wet pile next to me. i have either pissed myself or taken off all of my clothes and pissed on them. i'm leaning towards the latter, because there is no other way i could have pissed on my own hat. of course, i could have just spilled or been spilled on. but for the sake of my embarrassment let's say it was piss. i am alone. i am still drunk. really really drunk. i stand up and notice an open room. i don't bother to check what time it is. i flop onto a bed that belongs to someone i do not know and fall asleep probably mid-flop.

a few hours (minutes? days? i have no idea) later: i am awoken by who i imagine is the owner of the bed.
"let's go, 1 o'clock already, time to leave."
i don't think he meant for his bed to serve as a dropping point for piss-covered jackasses. i put on my still-wet clothes muttering a quiet "ah, shit" (when i realize that i did, in fact, completely lose my voice) and stumbled down the two flights of stairs. i ride my bike home but have no recollection of the route i took. i probably fell asleep on the way. it is long past the point where i could show up to the "semi-annual" with any semblance of respect. in short, during a celebration for our semi-annual meeting, i got too drunk and slept through our semi-annual meeting. so everyone who didn't get alcohol poisoning and went to the meeting knows exactly why i wasn't there. my shame was unbearable. i was drunk until 8pm saturday.

but through a combination of big-picture philosophy and some cathartic blog-posting, i've purged the guilt from my soul. the pressure has been lifted. i invite you to sympathize, empathize, ridicule, mock, deride, console, relate to, whatever you want, positive or negative. i think we can all learn from this.

and i believe i've lost control. this has spiraled out of orbit and we're heading for a gate crash (ok i've been watching a lot of cowboy bebop lately. anime rules, right sergei? but i'll save that for a future post). but at least i'm pulling my weight around here now. pressure's on you guys.




oh hey, BASEBALL'S BACK!

"Did You Ever See the Holy Mountain?"

Clipse. Rick Rubin. Wow. That's all I have to say. Also, there's a track featuring Kanye that's under consideration for the final album. I hope "'Til the Casket Drops," is an 18 disc album filled with pure gold. That's the only it can live up to my expectations. Who am I kidding, it's guaranteed to be the best album of the coming year.

In other music news, I've spent a lot of time listening to Max Tundra's latest album, "Parallex Error Beheads You," lately. It's pretty boss. Like fer rillz 'n' shit, easily the funnest preoccupied with death album ever. Or something like that.

Very Hindenburgian.

A Chin Makes All the Difference

I shaved the chin of my beard. Now they call it "sideburns."

Creepsters and Movies

This post will not be about my esoteric style of writing.

Long ago, I was a boy scout. Hard to believe--I know--but I was, and eventually I managed attain the rank of Eagle Scout. Anyway, that's that not really important here, what is though, is that on my second or third camping trip, I was paired up with Gary (not his real name), a kid who the rest of my patrol (a subset of the troop I belonged to) thought was weird. I assumed it was because he was awkward and his dad, who was one of our scout leaders, was a jerk, but that wasn't why at all, as I would soon find out.

That first night, as I was trying to get to sleep, Gary started talking to me. I was surprised at first, he wasn't the most talkative of fellows, but seeing a chance to actually get to know him I went along with the small talk. Things were going fine, until this little exchange:

Gary: You know what, sometimes, when I'm lying awake in bed at night, I like think about the perfect murder.

Me (a little confused, a little concerned): Huh?

Gary: The perfect murder. Getting away with it, scott free. I think I could do it. Did you ever think about that?

Me (starting to get weirded out): No.

Gary: I do all the time. I love plotting it out. I'm smart enough, you know? I could definitely get away with it. No one would ever be the wiser.

Me (weary): That's kind of strange...

Gary: I'd like to try it someday. I really think...

Me (getting out of my sleeping bag): You know, it's a nice night. I think I'll sleep outside.


Needless to say, I was creeped out. I hadn't though about this incident for awhile, but was reminded of it while watching Shohei Imamura's 1979 film, "Vengeance Is Mine." It's the story of a Japanese serial killer, who was on the run from the cops for 78 days during the mid or late 60's (I can't remember for sure, I think mid). It's a strange movie, laboriously paced, yet packed with plot. I like it though. It's got plenty of violence, boobs, and a twisted sense of humor. Plus the lead actor, Ken Ogata, is more than a little awesome. Really, what more could you ask of a film.

Oh, one last thing. Years later Gary and I were on the same highschool tennis team (I know, boy scouts and tennis? Yeah, I was a cool). He no longer talked about murder, but what he did do was wet his pants.

LA Is weird

A Prostitute either tried to attack me or seduce me last night. I'm not sure which. All I know is, I'm going for a run, listening to some Jay-Z when I see a woman surmisably stranded by her automobile. I take off my headphones in case I get to be a good Samaritan. Upon getting closer I realize the woman is wearing no pants. Fishnets and panties from the waist down. Also, her car is not her car. It is the car of a John. A man sits in the front seat negotiating. Unable to stop my route and the fervor of exercise, I kept going. As I went by she stuck out a leg and tried to trip me. Her face said "pay me for sex" but her actions said "I want to rob you". I didn't know what to do so I ran through her leg, sending her spinning. This terrified me. I screamed at the top of my lungs, a big guttural yowl from primitive origins. I then saw that a pimp was watching from an adjacent SUV. I sprinted home because he followed me for five blocks. Then I got home and drank some Whiskey. Los Angeles is weird.

Important Announcement!!!

I figured there was no better place than the Hindy to unveil plans for my first novel. I have spent much time over the past few years, telling loved ones of my plans to write the Great American Novel (a hippogriff if there ever was one) starring the X-Men. Well, ladies and gentlemen, the time has come to do just that, only with one little change to that formula.

My first experience with the X-Men, was the early 90's cartoon that aired on Fox. When I then moved onto the actual comics, the books were nearing the tail end of the Jim Lee era. Blue and yellow were everywhere (some times pink and green too); as were belts, pockets, visors, and sunglasses. It was awesome. This is the period of X-Men continuity that my story will be set in, and during this time there were few things that resonated with me more than the father-daughter relationship between Wolverine and Jubilee. So that's what I'm going to focus on.

But this is where the change comes in. Wolverine will not be in my book. Like many Marvel Comic fans, I've grown tired of the character's overexposure (quite the understatement too, believe you me), so I've chosen to replace Logan with none other than award winning documentarian Ken Burns. Unorthodox choice? Of course, but that's the point. Writing the Great American Novel would be all to easy of a task. This novel will force me to better utilize my imagination, to come up with an alternate history for Jubilee, one different from the one seen in the cartoon and comics. Think of it as Phillip Roth's "The Plot Against America," only my novel will be about the X-Men and not about what would have happened had the Nazis won World War II.

So how does Ken Burns come to take on the role of Jubilee's father figure you might ask. Well, here's how: Coming off the success of 1990's "The Civil War," PBS wants yet another boring historical documentary, but Burn's has other ideas. He does not want to become that kind of documentarian, the kind known for being unable to bring his skills to anything other than the past. He wants to tackle something more current, something topical that will resonate with people, particularly teen's a group not as interested in "The Civil War" as the 50-somethings who make up most of PBS's demographic. What better way to find out what adolescents are into, than by visiting a mall; and where better than a mall in the capital of stereotypical mall culture, Southern California's San Fernando Valley. A week after his stroke of genius, Burns finds himself walking through the Sherman Oaks Galleria when a Sentinel (a robot controlled of mutant hating scientist Dr. Trask even bigger mutant hater Henry Gyrich) burst through the mall's roof and in search of the Jubilation Lee, a.k.a. Jubilee. Without thinking Burns comes to the aid yellow jacket clad teen, by deflecting the robot's hand into one of the mall's many fountains, where the water causes the robot to short out. The threat averted, Burn's offers to treat Jubilee to an Orange Julius, knowing that's the only thing that will calm someone after such a traumatic moment. Over the delicious beverage, Burns and Jubilee really hit it off, so much so that he asks her to be his guide through to Southern California mall culture. Being a typical bored teenager, and feeling some sort of familial love for the man, she readily agrees.

That of course will only take up the first few pages or so of the novel. I'll be tackling a few other things as well. Like Jubilee's homelessness (it's not real homelessness, she just doesn't like living with her mom) and dealing with the other sentinels sent after her, especially since a fountain will not always be around for Burns to deflect its reaching hand into. My main focus though, will be Burn's addiction to--in his own words--"fucking." In fact the only reason Burn's had made "The Civil War," was to distract himself from "fucking," but since his series about teen's hanging out in malls is only in the planning stages, it will be harder to avoid "fucking." There will be other things touched upon too, but these are the ones I've figured out so far.

Oh, in case you are worried, Burns and Jubilee will not be doing any "fucking." She's too young for him, and more importantly too pure. Burns is not intersted in that. Also just because he likes "fucking" does not mean he lacks morals.

***

Tomorrow (or by Thursday) I tackle the accusation that I write esoterically.

A Gruff Growl, A Dancer's Brawl, A Balletic Paradise

Attention Citizens of The NewHindenburg! Put down the razor, climb in from that window, and let's have us some meatloaf. I've got a nice warm slice of meat hear for you. Can you hear it sizzle? I bet you can. Meatloaf doesn't normally sizzle but this loaf got some pop to it.

We've been a mopey bunch here of late but I think we're right about most of it. Bryan and the Pen gave us mournful soliloquies on the void. I mean, yeah, it's there and we feel compelled to poke it with a stick. Poking's fun and good but why poke when you can stab it in the heart and suck out it's blood?

I've spent most of my time thinking about writing, which is exactly what I hate most about the majority of young writers. Enough of that though, the time has come to embark on a concerted effort to start writing more.

Don’t you get it? We like being addicted to it.

Scientists will look back on these sentences and say "By golly, I think they're saying the same thing." I'm not a scientist but I applied for a job as a Chemist once. In my circle of friends I've come to notice a disturbing trend among America's youth: we've got no energy. We drift like barnacles and spend more time latching onto whatever's there. Nights of debauchery end with everyone huddled around a computer screen watching video's on Youtube. This is nothing against Youtube, lord knows I love this but how far does it have to go? Our entire lives are spent in front of a screen. We're so lucky to be born in the exact window where we can feel the full complicity of technology while fortunate enough to recall a time when there was no computer in our house. They're a good thing, a swell thing, the very thing these words exist upon. On the downside, Computers be clowning us, dawg.

You can rely on a computer.
You can lie down to a computer.

To a great athlete, the ball feels like part of their body. A great saxophonist can not tell where they end and the saxophone begins. I sit at the computer and become a big, dumb drooling computer. Dialed into electrodes, the brain goes numb as I lie prostrate before the screen. Pen says we're addicted to this feeling of it. I'm down with that. I'm addicted to everything. My personal it comes from sitting at a computer. I sit to write and read about baseball. I hear a clock ticking. Pages left unwritten but can not ween myself from the ambilical feed of information. No one gets a good self-image when comparing themselves to omniscience.

This isn't the computer's fault. As an information terminal, it comes into direct conflict with the writing process which requires one to clear their mind and become a medium.

Paul Auster wrote a book about his Typewriter. I don't think anyone outside my friend Caitlin will ever cuddle their technology.

I'm digressing terribly and resisting the urge to compare William Perry's career YPC to the gross domestic product of Norway. Our generation has nothing to look forward to yet there are no protests, no flag burning, no nothing. The useless landcape around us is the fact that no one gives a shit about anything yet people still have the gumption to talk to me about Greenpeace.

You can wear a sarong if you want
For no reason at all.
But to wear a sarong
You've got to feel a sarong
And be in a place
To think about wearing a sarong
Not, like, blenders, or anything like that
If you opt to be a sponge
Soak, soak, soak it up.
You'll get filled and wet
But won't think about wearing a sarong.

It's hard to step back to the tides of Whimsy to feel young, surprised, and prosperous. I have the ideal living situation with perfect people doing perfect thing but Kesey was right, "the combine is everywhere." Something is chasing us, beating us into submission and we don't even know it. It's possible to throw off this beast for a few hours but if you want to break it down, crumbling it into mere veneer and taste the full vibrancy of a peach, all out assault is the only way to go. I'm not strong enough to wrestle my demons away. If I'm going to get the life I want the only solution is to live the life I want. Every second. Everyday.

I want to ramble into town with a pocket full of Nickels and tell stories. Why the hell not?

In short, come August, Jeff and I are moving into an RV and shaping life as we'd like to have it. It's short-cited as fuck, ultimately childish, and ridiculous past the point of ridicule. It's absolutely perfect. Dissatisfaction's boring. BORING BORING BORING. A Jar of Mayonaise no one bothers to eat but stares at anyway. Riding around in a careening husk of metal adorned with frescoes of screaming children and blaring Beyonce's "Single Ladies" as we roll into a new town, well lubricated on the sweet nectar of "Why Not?", is the only way to play out the hand.

You're all invited.

"This" or "That" Isn't Quite What We're Looking For

No one likes to live in sadness. Some of us are addicted to it, and we like to think that we can’t control it, so we explore it because that’s what we’re compelled to do. It’s how we know how to feel, and how to express. Even better, we recognize how impermanent sadness truly is; that we can very simply turn a switch and be something else, but that’s beside the point. We’ve jumped down the well with the belief of some China on the other side. Our fall will be like nothing we’ve experienced, or anyone else for that matter.

We’re leaving everything up in the air, because nothing belongs on the ground. We want to see fit that fit is unfit, or we’ll throw one. There’s nothing else to do, and we wonder why not EVERYONE is bored to tears. It’s undoubtedly our fault, and we’ll take credit for it, because we’re addicted to it. Don’t you get it? We like being addicted to it. It’s how we know how to feel, and it’s been so easy to convince ourselves that it’s better than not feeling, so now it’s what we do because we feel compelled to do it. It is now a way of life.

And I think we were destined for it, really, because, at least in my case, it came out of nowhere, but I can’t speak about it for anyone else, because each of us has come to know it differently, and I don’t know what it is to each of them - or you, too, if you feel inclined to it (and this isn’t just about sadness [though it might be one day], just so we’re clear about it). Still, individually, each of us knows what it is, whether or not we acknowledge . We can’t separate it from ourselves - how we fill in the space of an unfinished sentence.

Though I hate it, it’s there, and “it” is more than nothing.

I hope you’ll trust me, for it’s sake.

Jeff the Pen.

Avoid the Shit Sandwiches

I spent an hour trying to figure out how to start this thing and ended up with a mopey 500 word shit sandwich, about how I've sucked at writing for the last year or so because I've become convinced I'm not that good (maybe even awful) and that has resulted in me not doing that much writing for myself (a.k.a. here). Instead of actually putting words to paper/screen, I've spent most of my time thinking about writing, which is exactly what I hate most about the majority of young writers. Enough of that though, the time has come to embark on a concerted effort to start writing more. If I am as bad as I think I am, I'm only going to get better if I start doing my thing. What I'm hoping is that quantity will turn into quality.

So, here's my return to posting...take seventeen trillion. I figure I'll start things off easy, mention a few things that have happened during the early parts of 2009, and my thoughts on them. I may or may not write more about these things in the future.

Christmas Camera

I got a digital camera for Christmas!!! Pretty cool, eh? I haven't really used it that much so, but I fully intend to. I want to catalog the degenerates that lurk in the darkest corners of L.A.-proper's few remaining arcades. Besides photographing mole-men-like arcade denizens, I also plan to tape a series of interviews (I'm thinking 200-300 hours worth of content) that will be used as fodder for a murder mystery set in the not so glamourous world of high stakes Street Fighter II Turbo tournaments. Anyone interested in joining me?

John Updike, 1932-2009

John Updike passed away at the end of January. I loved him. If you haven't read him you'll probably fall in love with him too. Few writers have ever strung words together better, effortlessly portraying the ugly and mundane aspects of life in such a beautiful way. He was also one of the best sport writers I've ever read (though few consider him one). No one has better captured what it's like to play a sport (see the first few pages Rabbit, Run) and his essay on Ted Williams's final home game is a heartbreaking work of staggering genius, just like most of his writing.

Failing to Get Past Page 50 in a Novel

I haven't been able to get past page 50 of a novel in what feels like forever. Ridiculous, right? Totally. But I've started quite a few since 2009 arrived. The latest attempt, was my third at Journey to the End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Celine. I got to page 25. It was pretty good though. Lot's of ellipses which I dug. I like that Celine manages to capture the speed and beat of unfocused thought. I can especially appreciate it, since I'm just as unfocused as his main character, Bardamu (see my inability to get more than 3 chapters into this book, even though I like it). I don't like Celine's rampant anti-semitism though. It's not really present in the book, but when I read a book I like to supplement it with articles about the author (not book reviews though, they're shit, and ain't no one whose going to tell me how I'm going to think about what I'm reading). Maybe this is one of the reasons I struggle to finish anything other than a short story or a comic book. Another could be that because as soon as I start reading something, I start thinking about all the other books I'm not reading that might be better than what I am reading, no matter how good it is.

I'd like to add that I have been able to start and finish a few books this year, just no novels, which I note here because they are the type of book nearest and dearest to my heart. One of the books I did finish really struck me though, and that book was...

Scott Pilgrim Vol. 5

WOW!!! This book (a graphic novel) is astounding, amazing, fantastic, not-quite-life-changing-but-almost, and just about every other possible hyperbolic positive adjective that you can think of. Bryan Lee O'Malley's entire epic has been one of my favorite reading experiences of the century, but this one just blew me away. When I've had more distance and can better--or at least more even handedly--relate why this is book is so good, I will.

Kogi

Like taco trucks? Like Korean barbaque? Now imagine if they were mixed together, that's Kogi. The results? Fantastic. Both Chau and I will readily attest.

Celebrity Sightings

Ryan Gosling and I like to walk around with our hands in each others' back pockets. We're that close, only closer.

Joel's Return

Having Joel back is pretty cool, I guess. Actually it's pretty awesome. I missed having someone to talk to about basketball/books/writing while he was gone. His return has also meant games of G-E-I-C-O and is a big part of why I'm writing this today.

Also if you click on the link to his sister's blog in his latest post, you'll find that it has a content warning you have to click through before viewing it.

***

Alright, I think that's all for now. But more will soon follow. That's right, soon.

A Rumination, A Rat Tail, A Rattle, and Clenched Feet

This is my sister.
This is her blog.
She's 26, lives in Amsterdam, and crashes bicycles for recreation. Reading it once reaffirmed the childhood notion that I was the duller child. I've recently held court in constant conversations of why one does art and what it means to be an artist. I've hoisted pedantic bullshit like I was the out of place Mo Williams in yesterday's All-Star Game. Surrounded by the smarter and stronger, it doesn't matter if my reasons are accurate, well thought out, or even legit. Throw enough up an out and I'll belong through quantity alone. Though this makes me feel good, makes you feel good, makes us all feel good about our lazy lump-like lifestyles, it doesn't stand for much of anything. If I were to answer these questions honestly, my answer would be "I want to be like my Sister." She left when I was 15 and became an artist on Bavarian Slopes. We went to visit over Christmas and I recognized a cosmic shift in my sister. Gone was the insecurity of youth, in its place was the recklessness of not giving a fuck and doing whatever she wanted to do. This was not sister I was visiting, this was a monolith!

Seeing her thriving, each and everyday in pure video form, I feel the desire to slit my wrists to slather myself on the canvas and douse my eyes with bleach so my mind will be filled with self-conjured imagery. Her daily dalliances with hair cuts, hitch hiking, and watching porn are among the purest things I've ever read. She read Henry Miller, I read Sportswriting. It shows. Her writing gives feeling--oozing with life in its sheer simplicity. I turn the tongue in weird ways of metaphor and structure in attempts to t be provocative. I'm trying to do something. She's just putting it out there.

It looks as though I'll be living in an RV next year and spend all day doing awesome things. Regardless of what happens it won't be nearly as cool as the imagined life I've given to Tess. It's best not to know your reasons, its better not to try and predict the path...


Life has reverted to a second, much sorer, childhood. With no responsibilities, Driveway H-O-R-S-E has climbed the mantle of "things to do" to become one of my favored pass times. In Indiana, there was nothing. In nothing, everything was beautiful. I'd pick up a book and read the whole thing. I'd watch a movie then watch it again. Things were enough just by existing. Not in Los Angeles. I've got no problems with congestion or the vats of hair gel soaking the head of every stranger's head, making them nothing more than walking oil spills. It's simple because this place is too damned complex. There's too much going on to focus on anything. "What's Nick doing?" is no longer a question but a fiery jihad.

I like Horse because I'm good at it.

Big handed and confident, I've never lost a game of HORSE on my rim until today. We invited Brock to play and it stopped being a game of basketball skills. Having no knowledge of the game or muscle memory to boot, Brock stumbled into it like most things he does, half drunk, half dressed, and completely silly. While we sat in the driveway spinning balls and hoisting jumpers, he stayed in his room, occasionally popping up after a chorus of "Brock it's your shot" like 25th street's Oscar the Grouch. The game wasn't even enough to grab his interest, just a moment's diversion from the task of cleaning his room. Leaning out the window or tip toeing along the roof, he let loose an endless of barrage of half-assed shots. In basketball, one's trained to hold their fingers a certain way, release the ball at a certain point. As if the laws of physics were temporairily paused by his joy in dismantling me, ball after ball knuckled through the rim. It's giving these shots too much credit to say he aimed. It might even be too much of a complement to call them shots. This wasn't basketball, this was whimsy. I used my Erector set to make a crane. He used his to make a confusing jumble. I turned my head cock eyed and became dumb in imitation. I mean this as the highest compliment in the history of Brock-centric compliments.

Climbing on the roof, teetering on the windowsill, I was a far cry from Brock Alter. In the land of shingles, I was club-footeds and aloof while you whisked from tile to tile. They crumble below you're sandaled feet but you kept on smiling. As someone new to the game, he was left without a repetoire or shot list, making him a spelunker. Half of me wants to play Horse with Brock everyday. The other half of me wants to forget basketball ever existed so I can play it like him. You're a genie my friend. I think you'd like my sister.

I'm Like So Gosh Darn American!

Have you ever read a book about Italian teenagers, French adolescents, or any other sociological pact? I suppose the exact culture is of no significance because upon reading the words, one had to recognize the culture. Over my young life, I've met people from many nations from every continent. Meeting someone from a different culture, the first question is undoubtedly "So, what's it like?"

The usual response: "Good" but if one follows given details and pries deeper, they're sure to give a decent explanation in short order.

One of the downers about being American is that it's impossible to define. When I was eleven-years-old my parents sent me to an international camp in the Faroe Islands. My delegation consisted of 2 boys, 2 girls, and an adult leader named Wendy Dietrich. We met with delegations from eleven other countries and lived together in an empty school house. It was standard camp fare except each delegation had to throw a "Country Night"--garish affairs that featured national foods, icons, and costuming. If I recall correctly, I played Elvis, snaring my lip to the heavens in tribute to the man. At the last night of camp, we were supposed to trade national costumes with each other. People flocked to the Germans and Brazilians but no one wanted the American national costume--in my case a Junior Seau jersey and blue jeans.

No one wanted the American National Costume. It wasn't because they were Raiders fans and hated the idea of bringing home the jersey of a Charger. As a culture, America is damned big and really far outreaching. So much so, it makes it impossible to define. According to people of other country's they think of LeBron, Britney, and other high-glossified paragons.

It's very easy to define a culture outside one's own...
The French smoke cigarettes.
The Italians drink wine.
The Japanese buy soiled panties from vending machines.
But when it comes to defining my own nation, my own sociological identity, I come to a blank. Everyone in my circle feels slightly lost and even more confused. For the youth of a nation, we sure are a mournful sort. I pay attention to myself and the faces I see. From what I gather, everyone's a little out of place and longing to belong.

What is American? Well, there's no answer for this outside our best and brightest but I'm pretty sure my last 72 hours do the trick.

2/5/09
Union Station--Chicago

3:00PM
I wait for a cross country train from Chicago to Los Angeles when a woman, Michelle, strikes up conversation. She prods into my life.
I tell her I'm "kind of a writer".
She says "You should help me write a newsletter for my ministry".
I tell her "I'm a heathen".
She says "The bible is full of converted heathens."
I tell her "Spiritually speaking, I feel as if I'm alone in a void. This sounds bad but it isn't. it makes me feel very much at home. Late at night, I feel totally alone and totally at peace. I want to laugh at how silly the world is."
She says: "The Bible is full of funny things."
She'll never understand and never lay off.

4:00 PM
A delay is announced. I turn to the Amish behind me and say "You'd never get a delay with a buggy." They laugh. It is the most rewarding laugh I've ever received. There are 12 people in the Amish group. 6 men and 6 women. There are 5 married couples. The other gendered grouping is engaged. They hold hands CONSTANTLY.

First Night on the Train.
Start talking football and make friends because I'm a Lions fan and people pity that. We try to learn a card game from the Amish. We fail miserably. We start drinking, play cards. My train friend, Andrew says "We should hook up with these chicks. I've got the Jewish one, you get the redhead."
"I'm not into that."
"Why not."
"I'm in a serious relationship" I lie.
The younger girl doesn't stop talking. I go to sleep on the floor. I wake up two seperate times during the night. RThe first time, I see Andrew making out with the younger girl. The second time, I see him making out with the red head.

He is a retired chef at 25. He feels very good about this. It shows. Evewry sentiment speaks of braggadocio. I fear the trials of being too self-aggrandizing and am quiet the entire night. The others tell me "Joel, you're really quiet and obscure aren't you?" Inside my head I laugh.

At 6:00 am I'm awoken and sent to my seat to sleep.

The Next Day

I go downstairs, start reading Richard Price, and watch New Mexico tick by. An older woman starts talking to me. "I heard you were a writer" she tells "I'm a writer too". She explains her seven part novel to me. It ends with a Gorilla giving birth to the son of Julius Caesar in Hell, Michigan. I ask why a Gorilla would birth such a gaudy spawn. She says "To devolve it."

Later, we invent a version of the card game War where the Wars are determined by all manner of feats--arm wrestling, dessert drawing, president race, etc.---

We get an hour off in Albequerque. Andrew and I run to a Liquor store and get lost. We are bound to miss the train and run down the street in fervent pursuit. A woman stops us and asks "Do you need a ride?"

She gives us a ride to the train station. Her PT Cruiser is filled with Kitty Liter. We make it back in time. I strike up conversation with four old ladies en route to a cruise. They tell me they can sing a song with any word I give them.
"Briss."
"What's a briss?"
"The Jewish rite of circumcision."
"We don't know any songs with that word."
They keep drinking and I keep watching.

That night...
I ask a man for a piece of chicken. He asks where I live. "Los Angeles" He breaks down the rivalry between the Bloods and Crips under the thesis of there's no such thing as a bad neighborhood. It's a good talk until the youth brigade interrupts. We play cards and dance to Michael Jackson played off of a cell phone. Good times.

I sleep on the floor again.

Next morning: I awake and go to walk home. Andrew says, "I need your contact info." He goes inside to get a pen and I run away. I walk five miles through all of Los Angeles--skid row, down town, Mexican neighborhoods, etc--before getting home and becoming young again.

I take a bath.
See friends.
Take a hike.
Eat Sandwiches.
Play basketball.
Do fun things.
Dance.
Dress funny.
Sing and make music.
Go to sleep happy.

That's it in a nutshell.

Choice

Sally Doyle stood in line and pondered. It was not uncommon for her to indulge her thoughts, especially in the mindless periods of waiting that permeated her daily life, whether it be sitting in traffic, standing on a subway platform, or, in this case, in line at the deli. It occurred to Sally that an infinite number of choices had lead to her to this city, to this borough, this street, this particular lunch counter that just so happened to be particularly busy for a Tuesday afternoon. If one of the tiniest switches of her life had flipped positive instead of negative, 1 instead of 0, who knows where she could have ended up? The thought frightened her.

The problem with multiple dimensionality, Sally thought, is the prospect of lost opportunity. If I worry endlessly about what could have been, how can I ever just be? She tried to push the thought from her mind. It was this kind of thinking that got her in trouble, that would lead to a lonely night with the half-finished bottle of dark rum sitting in her pantry from the last time she got caught up in paradoxical dilemmas. This was exactly the reason Sally hated waiting for anything. But even though she attempted to force the issue from her mind, all she did was mutate it into something not quite similar, but at the very least related.

There was a man. A man she loved, who was safe and generous and made her as happy as she's ever been. But, of course, there was another. The mutated thought swirled in the recesses of her mind. She loved the man she was with, but she could potentially love the man she wasn't with. And as everyone knows, she reasoned, it's the potential that excites us, the prospect of pure, uncontaminated happiness that is inevitably poisoned by whatever infidelities either of us may secretly harbor that will eventually come to light that drives us to pursue, to hunt, to date. Her thoughts were obviously lingering on the concept of choice for a reason. She had a potentially life changing decision ahead of her, possibly just beyond this lunch counter. When would the nagging feeling of lost opportunity force her to tell the man she loved to stop loving her? She would have to move on. I can't live with the thought, she thought. That constantly lingering question of "What if?" precluded any possibility of settling down for Sally Doyle.

She thought back to her first date with The Man she was with. It was a clear, if a bit blustery, post-rainstorm type of day. They had quietly walked through the park, sharing little save for breath, people-watching--as they still do together to this day--taking in the calm air not alone, but together. It was a wonderful beginning to a satisfactory middle, heading for a disappointing end. That's my problem, Sally blinked as she took a tiny step forward in line, I'm infatuated with the start, but always let down by the finish. She considered the possibility that she was not the only one with this problem. Again, the thought frightened her. If she couldn't fully invest herself in someone else, how could anyone else fully invest themselves in her? And again, she forced the thought from her mind.

The line was moving excruciatingly slowly, much to Sally's chagrin. She did not want to have a nervous breakdown while waiting in line at the deli. She took a few deep breaths, pushing the possibility of being perpetually alone further down into the depths of her consciousness. The thought was not gone by any means, but it was at the very least waylaid for the time being. It would undoubtedly resurface again at some point. She briefly considered the menu hanging on the wall before succumbing to further introspection; her life was on the menu. Different jobs, different men, different apartments, all interchangeable save for the incontrovertible fact that they weren't. Every single thing about her present was constructed by her past. Had she not taken that art course back home, she never would have moved to the city, and because of the courses she took, her funds were severely limited, restricting her to the particular borough she inhabited, and the apartment she lived in, and the tiny art supply store near her apartment where she met The Man she was with (and later The Other Man, the man with such great potential). She took another step forward.

She was close now. It was nearly her turn. Sally thought: Is there any good reason for me to rock the boat? Is the prospect of change really that exciting to me? Yes. It is. I am not one to stay put, to leave things as they are. It's my fatal flaw, my insatiable curiousity for more, for something that I have not had, may never have, unless--that is--I choose now. This is my one chance for change. I am in love. But am I sure? Who is to say that what I call love now may not be completely eclipsed by the potential for love that I feel from someone else? Everyone is so different. Love is never the same. How could it be? It's impossible for me to transfer all of my feelings for one man to another without consequence. Would I call him by my former lover's name? Would that ruin everything? Or would he laugh it off, seeing through my insecurities and quietly chuckling at my naivete that I could possibly think I could have everything, experience everything in a single lifetime? The Man I'm with wouldn't laugh. The Other Man might, potentially. Sally stopped thinking.

She stepped up to the lunch counter, greeted with the choice:

For here or to go?