Fun With Holes and Not Fun With Holes

I am an Owl, hooting hooting in my nocturnes in the creepy stillness of my suburban street. This is a glamorous way of saying I'm living in my Mom's basement and not sleeping much. To spite my hours, I'm making a concerted effort to get out of the house as much as possible whether it be to the woods, games of Frisbee with Middle-Aged Men who scoff at my headband at Diva effrontry. To wit: a pass was intended for me but Paul, a much older and pot-bellied teammate defied his years and leapt for the frisbee, sending it caroming out of reach. My purest state is chasing down an airborne ball and disk. My eyes widen to canyon proportions as I tumble, tizzy, and drool in epileptic pursuits. It was a tightly contested game and I couldn't contain my displeasure as the disk fluttered asunder. A show of hands and a disapproving comment later, I figure I'll stick to nights.

Nights in the suburbs are creepy with due and quiet houses. I've heard of the supposed white flight that populated suburbs but I rarely see a soul. I can spend hours outside without seeing another person, a fact I really like. I'm longing for Los Angeles, the beach, and the strangeness that comes out sometimes (not that it doesn't come out here) but don't miss running over beer-soaked hobos.

The other night I ingested copious amounts of Triple Chocolate Ice Cream and went for walking in the dark along side John and the Hoopster. Feeling young, like sixteen, we compared musculature, body hair, and fashioned ordinary articles of clothing into extraordinary bandannas. A car sidled up. A boy and girl were inside. They were awkwardly pausing, sharing a glance of hormonal trepidation. I yelled "Date!" and we skipped off giggling. Maybe it was the unprovoked action of the Asshole in me but it could've been helpful. Sometimes, particularly in romantic endeavors, an outside perspective gives the extra boost of gusto as Hoopster can attest. The night air was warm. A breeze blew in such a way as to suggest the Ocean was nigh. We ran around like little kids. I watched my friends do cartwheels and tried the same. I fell on my head. We giggled over "Touch and Run". Touch and Run originated when John, Hoopster, and Nick visited LA for Spring Break two years back. We were driving home from a Clippers/Pistons game when I leapt from the car, ran to a man, and put my arm around him. This drew his immediate attention. I screamed "Touch and Run!" and ran, thus touching and running. It may be intrusive but it may be the future of social networking. Imagine you're on a street or in some serious flourescent corridor. Someone runs up, hands you a business card, then touches you. They scream "Touch and Run" then run away. You look at the card. It informs you "You've just been touch and runned." Then it lists the website and the toucher's Toucher ID and profile. If you're reading this blog, you're probably the sort of person to log on. Who knows? Maybe you'd like to touch and run. Maybe you thought your toucher attractive and the feeling's reciprocal. Many will be married. Also, scavenger hunts will be a big part of this.

I've always been enamored with the idea of disrupting average activities. First of all, it's fun. Secondly, I believe anything out of the ordinary is a good thing. Insight comes from the extremes.

On the way home from the golf course, I rode my bike five miles without using the handlebars. I screamed as I rode, waiting for crossing headlights to strike me down. It felt weird and not of this planet so I went to the gas station for some candy. I hopped off my bike in front of a car of drunk girls and a chorus of "Whoos!". I gave a polite wave and assumed that was that as I proceeded to buy a Whatchamacallit. On the way out, they called "Get in the car.' Some men (cough Ross Godwin) would jump at this opportunity but my natural reaction was not to plant my seed at all cost but a wry grin and flummoxed head shake. "Twenty dolalrs to take off your pants." My financial state is a dire one and I'm a well known exhibitionist in certain circles as Jeff and Dan have documented. I've been covered in body paint, eating roots in the nude. I portrayed Appu's wife in a series of stills that still resonate in the darkest chambers of USC film school under the watchful eye of Zack Savitz.I couldn't go that low. I couldn't pants myself in a gas station parking lot. I rode away. They yelled after, "What's wrong with you. A car full of girls yells at you and you just wave?" I agree completely. Something's definitely wrong with me but I heartily doubt I'll find the cure from going home with randoms to smoke menthol cigarettes and watch Hockey.

There is a crater on my street flanked by two pink flags denoting the flat tire in waiting. My greatest traffic fear is getting a wheel caught in the crater. Anyhow, pot holes are under utilized as an artistic medium. I thought of the bored suburbanites who'd see the crater and fret for their tires. I did what any good citizen would do. At five o'clock this moring I filled the hole (it went two feet down!) with dirt and planted some flowers in the crater.

I have things I do when I get really down or encounter acute mental blockage. They are as follows.
1) Shoot hoops in an imagined scenario in which I play Small Forward for the New York Knicks.
2)

• Drink
  

3) Sing songs without lyrics.
4) Put on the Unitard.
5) Sit outside
6) Put funny things in potholes. I can't wait to fill a hole with a dragons tail or to make it appear that a man is lying prostrate in the road with his head down the hole.

"Tent-a-Cles!" on the Hillside (draft)

Part one.


He wouldn’t tell us much about the scars across his eyes. He was staying at our house at random, and when some people saw him for the first time they couldn’t help but ask, “Hey… how’s it goin? Uh, what’s with the scars?!” Lennart didn’t flinch. He stares. A lot.

His response communicated in the unconventional sense of the word. His tone was concentrated, and he said (slowly - surely, but slowly, as one who conquers mountains of the mind), “In an accident.” He didn’t say it the second time, so I felt lucky to have heard that his brother has scars in those exact places. It blew my mind. Their faces – opposing sides of an equation or branches on a tree? A natural Rorschach in caricature. I wanted to meet his brother… maybe see them side by side, and then get to know them, then see two personalities that grew-grow-willgrow to the same light?

We met through the internet. We gave him a place to stay, and in exchange they gave us some cigarettes. …Without having to pay. In fairness, they also gave us amazing stories of their travels, including a time they got kicked out of a Turkish barber shop since they almost started a fight with the hairdresser who gave them the worst fucking haircut they’d ever experienced. The Turkish and Ze Germans hate each other. They told us, and we learned.

They stayed at our house for over a week, and no doubt – we had an amazing time. There’s no way to describe the way it feels to share life experiences with someone who breathes different air. It’s bizarre, and it’s funny, and you want to circle the globe until your feet are brown and calloused, until you have so many stories that you understand true love, and better: all the ways people laugh when they learn something shocking, new.

…………………………………

Everything was normal before they went to Vegas. They stayed with some other Germans while they were there, and Johannes, the other guy living in our house for so long, would only stay in his room when they got back from their trip. They were rather close-mouthed when they returned. I found them sitting on the balcony, and they didn’t say much, staring at their computers, only, “Yes, it was fun.” Now, they talked to each other in their own language more than before. I prodded, and we were able to laugh about similar experiences with collections of prostitute baseball cards.

Upon his return we took Lennart into the Malibu mountains. It was a charming experience, to appease his eagerness for “Baywatch” destinations. Hah - BOOBS. “David Hasselhoff!” he yelled and we all laughed together, including Lennart the German. The drive took longer than expected, and after miles of dark ocean we swirled up a hillside. It was fucking hilarious, I’m sure, to the outside observer who saw five sublimated young men – one so different than the other four, and that strange one experiencing our creative taste in music. Eventually, we got out.

There was a path that hugged the side. The sky was light enough, and, hazy. We took the path, and the German had no shoes, still, after more than a week, but we walked and walked. Turns around any bend offered no view, no sensible place to stop but this journey was by chance and we walked like zombies until we felt comfortable enough to rest. We stopped on the side of a hill, and in front of us we saw: dark trees touch hillside against valley floors dawning subtle sea before the shimmer of Santa Monica, and I’m sure each of us thought: that German guy sees it differently than we do.

We got bored, staring at the place around us – a good thing, especially in close vicinity of a trusted stranger that you want to learn about.
As before, he seemed new, after Vegas, in a way that tangled my mind. It seemed he was ready to take over the world.

I sat down, and started throwing rocks at trees. As I got better at hitting the trees, ~distantsilhouettes~ and it made the German curious. I watched as he bent over and found the right rock to throw. He tried, but he was worse than me, and I made a point of telling him. …It’s good to fuck with someone; Emotion. You learn about them. Anyway, we raced until one of us had 10 hits on the tree, which took longer than you’d expect - 15 minutes. He was a slow learner, but almost caught up towards the end. I beat him 10 – 8, and I even let go of one point.

Then, nothing special.
He smoked cigarettes.
We talked about the stars.

Quiet.
Quiet.
Quiet.
Quiet.
Quie

That's when he told us about The Aliens.

Om Ara Bha Sa Na Dhhhhhhiiiii

This post pertains to Crows. Music is important and though I see fit to put on a selection from her fine catalog of music, this is not about Sheryl Crow though I imagine she follows similar lessons after similar health battles although I doubt she's ever had the same conversation with my Mother that made such lessons learnedly possible. Note: I caught her drumstick at the first concert I ever attended. I was eleven.

Personal Integrity IE Walking your talk.

I was recently in the hospital. For several weeks I found myself in the hospital on and off combating bouts of Gastrointestinal Bleeding that manifested themselves through bloody vomit or were sucked out through a straw they fed through my nose and into my esophagus. My sole comfort came in the form of friend's visitations and friendly nurses. I didn't appreciate the comforts of a solo room. Nor did I detour from the whizz-bang synaptic processes of an ADD-addled mind to make much sense of my situation and the difficulties of certain lifestyle changes IE not drinking. One can refrain from eating the forbidden fruit but one can't ignore it. I know I can't drink but I can still watch a lot of sports. One of the problem with sporting events the world over is constant beer commercials. A beer would be sweet right now. I'll stay strong. I look forward to a glass of low-proof champagne at both my weddings. My mind is working great. I appreciate the silence of my Mother's basement, something I failed to appreciate in the lovely confines of my solo hospital room.

During my last day in the hospital I was moved to a less intensive floor and gained a roommate--a flamboyantly overweight African American and self proclaimed "dancer" with a red dyed afro and an absess in his foot. He watched day time television, the worst kind, at ear-wrenching volumes that filled the room with Rachel Ray. It must've been torture for him. He wasn't allowed to eat yet watched thirty minute meals get prepared. He even watched in sleep. I didn't mind the volume so much until my Mother came to visit. She is very noise sensitive and I could tell from her face that it was driving her crazy. She sat at the window, the farthest possible place from the TV. She could be with her son and have a minimal amount of Rachel Ray's nasal exhalations. She breathes perky with every breathe.

I was unable to read Tom Wolfe's Hooking Up so I hobbled around the room exploring the toilet and my medical charts. I stopped in front of my mother. Neither of us had much to say to the other. We were four floors up. I could see a highway out the window. I could see USC. I looked at them both and thought of the good times. Leaning abck and staring straight up at the VKC tower, driving down the ten to visit Joshua Tree. Life with Dan, Paul, Dr. de los, Greg, Nick, Sticky, Caitlin, Jeff, Heidi, Nico, Brock, Matt, Ross, Zack, McNally, Appu, Paul Gleason, and the Titanic force of Baby Jamster. The ground was fifty feet below, too high for most birds.

Most birds.

A crow landed on my window sill, making direct eye contact and opening his mouth in a silent caw to arms. We stared at each other for over a minute. I panicked at the Crow's bad implications and pointed it out to my mother. It flew away as soon as my Mother turned to look, disappearing into palm fronds.

My mother's religion is a mash-up of Castholic ritual and druid beliefs making her a veritable melting pot of faiths. One of the tenants is something called Medicine Cards in which you draw a card featuring a totem animal and get your guidance from an accompanying book. It is more important if you see the animal yourself. The card's are very good because they are not always positive. On Friday morning my mother dabbled in her hallowed practice and presented me with the Crow. I thought it fit quite well. Here are some excerpts.

The Crow

"The Crow sees that the physical world and even the spiritual world, as humanity interprets them, are an illusion. There are billions of worlds. There are an infinitude of creatures."

"Crows are an omen of change. The crow lives in a void and has no sense of time. The ancient chiefs tell us that the crow sees simultaneously the three fates--past, present, and future. Crow merges light with darkness, seeing both inner and outer reality."

"You must pause and reflect on how you see the laws of the great spirit in relation to the laws of humanity. Crow medecine signifies a first hand knowledge of right and wrong different than those indicated by laws created by human culture. With crow medicine, you speak in a powerful voice when addressing issues that for you seem out of balance, out of harmony, out of whack or unjust."

"You must put aside your fear of being a voice in the winderness and caw the shots as you see them."

"As you learn to allow your personal integrity to be your guide, your sense of being alone will vanish. Your pensonal will can then emerge so that you will stand in your truth. The prime path of the true crow people says to be mindful of your opinions and actions. Be willing to walk your talk, speak your truth, know your life's mission, and balance past, present, and future in the now. Shape shift that old reality and become your future self. Allow the bending of physical laws to aid in creating the shape shifted world of peace."

"So you are the outlaw today, eh? This is one of the varied measures of Crow reversed. The rebel in you has given a yell and all hell is about to break loose."

"Honer the past as your teacher, honer the present as your creation, and honor the future as your inspiration."

That's the Crow in a nutshell. I'm trying to follow it's path. Coupled with a an Elizabeth Gilbert TED video sent along by Heidi and McNally, I feel really great about all things.

*****
I'm dreaming about my LA friends a lot. Last night, I dreamed we all went to a theme park and went riding along on a haunted roller coaster that absoulutely delighted Nick, Heidi, and Brock. It did not suit Paul Gleason. Halfway through the ride, as the coaster ascended to heights neccesitated a g-force drop, Paul hauled out of the coaster cart and berated our guide, an acne-faced grim reaper, for putting on such a phony show. He was escorted out of the ride and ejected from the park. Oh Paul you scamp!

NewHindenburg's NonBasketball Playoff Preview!!!

Oh Hello there. This is Joel Walkowski coming straight at you from the suburban muckrake of Dearborn, Michigan. I'm living in my Mother's basement, playing basketball with high school kids despite my inability to run. In a silver lining after 18 years of hoopin' up I've discovered the delicate art of the jumpshot by way of muscular atrophy and David Foster Wallace's tennis racket romanticism. You are a body. Everything you touch is part of your body. Yuk yuk yuk. There's a nice peace in my body, a quiet sobriatic hum that requires no coffee to wake up and infuses all physical exertions with a near-constant echo. I'm not sure of grammatical rules. I've got 750 pages left to read.

On Saturday, the NBA playoffs begin. I'll be watching alone and abandoning the ritual of cottonmouthed bliss on the living room floor. It should be a good one. The great narrative is in full swing with gladiators vying for their slot in the pantheon and requisite bounties of endorsement money. LeBron James endorses lawn mowers. Lawn mowers. If he wins the title, what'll come next? LeBron James: the official basketball player of Brock Alter's facewash? LeBron James: Jeff LaPenna's official masseuse. I drop the name of friends in this interval because of homesickness and a tough goodbye. Oh well. I constrained most of the tears, smuggled what I needed to smuggle and found a baggie of cocaine in the airport's terminal. Of course, the suddenly pseudo-upstanding man that I am discarded it. Note: sorry McWriter. I could've saved it but I didn't know GirlTalk's next tour dates.

Tony the Pony: AKA I'm Not Dead Part II

Holla up mas negroles? 

The role of a young man, such as I, is not to self-actualize. Rather than take a moral survey it is much simpler, and easier when drunk, toss around terminology like "mas negroles" without pausing to consider what kind of person uses turns of tongue like "mas negroles". Well, after some aches and pain, I've come to the sort of self a

ctualizing young men usually resist like penicillin resistant strains of chlamydia. 

Joel Walkowski is an eruption of blood waiting to happen. 

Over the past ten days I've received 14 blood transfusions (4 shy of the California Record) and shattered little world views. In brief previews of the other side I assured myself that things were forever different...Maybe they are...maybe they aren't. The sun will rise tomorrow, I'll come up with it. I'll do the things I like to do but for the first time i'll have to consider the question of what I'm able to do without resorting into the brock 

alterian hyperbole of superpowers and "y'know making a dough with soul". 

Drinking? Gone. 

Dipping? Gone. 

Sword Swallowing? Gone. 

I feel really great about all of this. 

NEW OPINIONS GLEANED FRROM CALIFORNIA HOSPITAL

* This opinion was borrowed from Tom Wolfe and is dumbed down in a way not befitting the writer who foremost understands America: It's all about the vibrancy. No one wants to read about the nature of art.  For the next 365 days I will be introducing a new feature to the Hindenburg. The pony of the day. In this feature I will describe a pony. 

This pony, Tony, is artificial with a coat of flaxen-fur and haunched tired from imaginary journeys. Tony's never taken a step but rocked side to side, wobbled (both to and fro) and encumbered himself with the full weight of mental weariness, making him a VERY TIRED PONY. 

Oh, Tony!

According to the filename, Tony is actually named Butterscotch, an undeniably insipid moniker. 

*IV's are best inserted in the wrist. 

*Sitting in a bed and watching TV all day is my own personal hell. 

*Not eating for four days might be worse, 

*Due to severe anemia, certain parts of my anatomy are unable to work at full precision. This does not frustrate. I've been thinking about airplanes instead. 

*If someone tells you "I'm a dancer", you tend to believe them no matter how overweight they are. 

*A mom rubbing your hair is the best feeling in the world. 

*The other side is warm, secure, and tempting. At my worst I almost floated off but something kept me tethered here. I could see the world from the vantage of astral projection, 2-3 feet over my bed looking down at my bed. In this moment of unencumbered being I made sure the TV was off so I wouldn't be disturbed by the droning of Jerry Seinfeld. I felt a certain sense of getting in a good mood b/c of an instinct advising me that the way I felt at that moment would be the way I felt forever. I slipped into bliss and nearly crept off but was drawn back by certain visions that best remain private. 

*They were stunning. Fuck.