A Letter To My Friend Jeffrey LaPenna

(Author's Note: I'd like to start a new feature on the site in which the four fathers of NewHindenburg to share epistles on various life experiences, food eaten, and train rides)

Dearest Jeff,

Greetings from Dearborn, Michigan. I write this from the sanctity of my Mother's basement where I have a humble set up. Despite my cheerful decor, a basement is always a basement and I'm resigned to the fact that I'm working from home this week. These dank doldrums are a far cry from what I expect to find in San Francisco, working freelance (and part-time at Chili's) wherever dollas flow.

This past weekend was the Memorial Day three-day orgy of fun reserved for praising our Military Men and Women. Labor Day is a similar day but it always makes me think of the Masons, of you high society scamps. I spent the first two days playing on a felled tree in the middle of a lake before returning for Detroit's Movement Festival, essentially a three day long rave that doubles as a tourist destination.

Somethings you should know about Movement:
-It is not an ordinary rave as fat suburbanites troll the grounds with novelty beer cups.
-I spent most of the evening alone as I got self-conscious and wandered off.
-I was dressed in a green unitard.
-This was severely out of place.

There were color festives but my form clinging ensemble instantly branded me as "Green Man" a status I was intimately unsure of. Walking into the fest, I bought a wristband off a woman for the discount price of twenty dollars, a sound investment if you ask me.

I've recently, in addled states become very self-conscious. Without the aid of alcohol, means of ingesting confidence are few and far between, a situation exacerbated by the presence of prescription Adderall in my blood stream. I've been on the med since year eight and accept it as the medium for doing work, attaining focus, etc. To have it at a place of dance made me a step slow, the very picture of trepidation. Also, as the picture of weirdness, I was without my brothers in arms--namely you, Nick, Brock, Heidi, Ross, Hoopster, et. all--so when the first person approached me and asked "Where's your head?" I was without applicable response to their disappointment at my level of Greendom. I shirked them off with eyes pointed downward and a feeble grin. I hoped this was the last of my encounters. It was not.

Every few minutes, I would be stopped by strangers exclaiming "Green Man" and extending their hands for high fives. I was in no mood to high five. You are intimately familiar with the film Podding (Olah 2008) seen here in which we depict the otherworldly friendship between Todd Kent, a humble Southerner, and Fenkel, a curious Alien from the Planet Schizanafrottoma. In the film, Fenkel helps Todd gain necessary confidence so he can ask a girl on a date but Todd's exploits leave Fenkel alone on the foreboding planet known as Earth. Similarly attired, I felt the exact same as Fenkel though I stopped short of murdering a priest.

Those approaching me were not the giggly sort commonly associated with raves. On the contrary, my new found friends were drunk hillbillies. That's what happens when the underground goes mainstream. As the flagship event in the Metropolitan Detroit Area, the specter of Movement beamed to pleasure seekers off all ilks, eager to frolic to bass beat grooves and revel in the conspicuously constructed scene I had unwittingly become an inextricable part of. I brought a change of clothes but it was far off in the car and I'd lost my ride. Fenkel it would have to be.

I took in a lovely set at something called the Red Bull stage. As it was densely packed I was limited to jumping up and down for the most part. The oddest tangent was that I danced for five hours and didn't sweat at all. I went for a run this morning and didn't sweat either. Is it problematic for one to stop sweating? I hope not. I find the reduced rate of showers needed refreshing. Refreshing as a shower. I have the same feeling with or without bathing.

The Unitard brought a great deal of attention from the lady folk. Like a crowd surfing woman, my body was open to digital exploration, specifically my ass. A woman came up and grabbed before asking, "Can I grab you again?" I was slow and sort of stared at her as she tweaked my cheek again. A few moments later, three women brushed their fingers against my stomach while cooing odes of "You look fantastic." I offered disagreement. They combated with additional accolades. I don't include these anecdotes as means of ego boosting. It was the most awkward I've ever felt. On a side note, I've gained insight into how Nico operates. This is a good thing for our planned business venture. I thought of Ross and how he would take advantage of these overtures. I'm no Ross Godwin, mon frere. I'd say thank you and little else. Is there an applicable response to a friendly tough? Is it possible for an unanticipated touch to be friendly? I hope you can answer me with these questions.

Sometime thereafter, I went to the bathroom and took a break on a grassy knoll near the port-a-toilets. An older woman of Polish descent approached and we had the following conversation.

Her: Nice outfit.
Me: Thanks. I'm an Alien.
Her: You ever been to Vancouver?
Me: No.
Her: I bet you'd love it in Vancouver.
Me: Why's that?
Her: They have these six people in unitards, one for every color of the rainbow, and they jump on trampolines together.
Me: Yeah, I'm looking for the rest of the spectrum right now.
Her: You can look it up on the Internet if you want.

A few minutes later I was approached by a young couple that requested a photograph. They showed me the front page of the Detroit Free Press in which featured a story on Movement accompanied by the photo of a man in a Green Unitard. Apparently, he was something of a logo for the event, which explained the additional attention throw my way. After they passed a man sidled up and whispered "You attention whore." I wanted to stop him and explain my relationship with unitards but he walked away before I could give him a talking to.

The human being is a far-strung construction with infinite complications within our own minds but to outsiders we are boiled down as such. I will use you as an example. As this is an example I will not focus on giving you the credit due to one of the World's best people and will analyze you like a basketball analyst analyzes the game of a given player (Tom Chambers and Dan Majerle in your case as Bryan and I previously explored )

Jeff LaPenna is my friend. He is Italian, makes movies, and has an artistic eye pointed towards the world. This artistic eye gives him strength but puts him at odds with reality. He enjoys being a manly man in the Outdoors. He is very strange and would jump at the chance to become an Alien. He uses his beard as a social tool and can be known to wear a hat from time to time. Come September, we are moving into an RV together for an artistic regiment, strange lifestyle, and loads of laughs.

I am Joel Walkowski. I like to feel a moment's invincibility and attain this feeling by doing things people don't normally do. I have a long standing relationship with Unitards that is reinforced through the enthusiasm of various friends. I thrive on the attention of others but only those close to my heart. Without these people I become aloof and reflective in a weird way that my family doesn't understand. To wit: My mother and I shared coffee this afternoon and she asked the fairly normal query of "What are you thinking about?"

I answered honestly. "If I could turn into a Dog, I could probably make a very good living as a Dog Actor in movies. I could go to an Open Mic night in Hollywood, show my abilities, and it would spread like wildfire. I'd be the man who doubles as a Dog Actor. The thing I don't know is whether or not it'd help or hurt me in getting girls. Fame would help but the idea of being with someone who is sometimes a dog could be quite disconcerting to some."

That's me in a nutshell. I suppose. But back to the festival.

Someone told me "The Green Man" is a fixture on the popular television show "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia". A good Samaritan went so far as to tell me the channel (FX) and air time (10:00 Eastern Standard). He told me I had to watch it. I viewed the episode in question. A man accidentally ingests Acid in the parking lot of Philadelphia Eagle tryouts and becomes "Green Man". Does this disqualify Green Man as my rave name? Am I already Pringle Man?

Shortly thereafter, I ran into the other Green Man. We shared a hug, a magical moment, and a dance off. It was a beautiful moment in the fraternity of those concurrent scantily clad and fully dressed.

I fell in with a group of Ravers who were "tasting the colors" so to speak. We danced in a circle for a half hour or so until it became time to remove my sunglasses. I didn't have pockets. I didn't want them bulging into my form. I put them on the ground, abandoning them. They were immediately returned. I tried the tactic again. They were, again, immediately returned. "You're so weird" they told me.

The night was colorful enough but fuck the scene, fuck being some sideshow. I went in the middle of a dance floor and went crazy for a couple hours. Ross would've been proud.

Beware the rave,
Joel

Say "Yeah Dog" In A Slightly High Voice

Detroit 24 16 .600 - 15-5 9-11 218 179 +39
Kansas City 21 21 .500 4 14-10 7-11 187 179 +8

The Detroit Tigers make all young men feel like Lady Gaga. A few days ago, I think I was on a couch, someone told me that Lady Gaga was my age. I think the person in question was female, though I can't quite remember who. (In all honesty: I was quite drunk. JUST KIDDING :P ) I argued with myself over which smiley face to use before settling on the smiley with his tongue out because I have a quite major problem with drooling. In my private quarters, I droll through life, a spittoon permanently affixed to the nether regions of my face.

The problem with my Dog has persisted, prompting my Mother to converse with the Dog as if my Dog were her Mother. She offered the Dog Xanax today. She didn't take it. If Christmas 2006 taught me anything it's: Don't let your sister get the Dog drunk. Despite the ebullient affects of similar medications on the Hoopster, I refuse to allow my Dog to be medicated.

In the basement of my home, in the corner of a crawl space, a small man lives. He plays the lute daily between the hours of 10-11am. At 2 pm prompt, he emerges to request half a can of SpaghettiO's. If I oblige him, he'll play the song of my choosing. After 6 cans (and twelve servings!) of Franco Amerrrrrrican's best he is proving quite adept at the Traveling Wilburys catalog. When I am stressed I consult with the man over my latest project, writing a play about professional wrestling. He assures me "Put a goat in it and everything will be just fine." If you say so Lazarus. That's the name inscribed on his lute. He said he didn't know his name. I did him the favor of scrawling "Lazarus" on his lute with a wood handled buck knife. He seems quite happy with the moniker, going so far as to serenade me with "Dirty World". I told him they're singing about a car as if it were a woman. He played a low mournful note, indicating that Bob Dylan was singing about a woman unfortunately born with a muffler and rear axle.

The things you can learn from crawl spaces.

I Paid $120,000 and All I Got Was This Lousy Diploma: Postmodernity Post-Graduation

As countless Classes of 2009 commence (my own included), I've found myself with a growing pit in my stomach and a constant feeling of nausea at the possibility of pure freedom. The conflict of the graduated is one between the limitless possibility of the next 50 years combined with a bright eyed earnestness that will no doubt fade in the next 5, and a kind of guilt in letting a perfectly good college degree (a B.F.A. no less!) go to waste with frivolous thoughts of "changing the world" through "eco-nazism" or "living on a boat and totally making a movie about it." And so, to show exactly what the Class of 2009 intends to do (but mostly to prevent this from coming Joel's Personal Blog of Detroit Thoughts), I'm going to blog.

There are, as so many have said, but in so many permutations, only two kinds of people in the world. There are those who, when faced with real, bona fide freedom, welcome it with tenacity and optimism. Those are the true Americans, the pioneers that will change the world, and I feel I am privileged to know at least a few of these kinds of people. And then there are those who cower in the shadows of the familiar when the towering challenge of personal liberty looms over them. I say those, but really I mean "me" because if there is anything I've learned from graduating college, it's that I wish I had never graduated college. The weight of educational life has been lifted, and the weight of the diploma has replaced it. College is an excuse to have the purpose of a goal that in reality is hardly more than somebody saying "Yeah, this kid's alright. You can give him a job if you want." Many people either see this fact and ignore it, or are in fact completely oblivious to it, and these moronically heroic souls find perfectly acceptable lives in what others may deem to be meaningless drone-producing desk jobs. That said, if you are one of these souls who can take the diploma with a smile and say "Yes, I'll gladly pay you a vast sum of money for a piece of paper with my name on it that actually no longer even guarantees me a middle-class existence after I walk across this stage," then perhaps this post is not for you. Or maybe it's precisely for you. I suppose it depends on your perspective.

While I'm attempting to make this conflict a universal trial of the Class of 2009, I can only speak of my own experience as a film student, and hopefully it's thematically relevant to all the other schools and disciplines that claim to be just as important. You see... there's this little thing called postmodernism. And having been bombarded with it for four years (and probably even further back than that), I find it increasingly difficult to let go of it in the post-graduate world. Is it okay for me to be whoring myself, selling a personality that isn't necessarily my own, just for an opportunity to be rejected (or even worse, accepted) by someone whose opinion I hold no stake in? Am I the go-getter in the most zealous sense of the word, heading into the Real World with a chip on my shoulder and something to prove? Or am I the slacker who looks down upon the automatons who come out of college thinking they're going to change the world, while I go get an ironic job as a taxi driver? Or am I the guy who cashes in on being the slacker who looks down on the automatons by making a hit reality show that ironically follows the slacker who ironically became the taxi driver and is now the star of a hit reality show? These are the things that keep me up at night, but then I remember that Larry David was a taxi driver before he made Seinfeld and I feel comfortable with my choice of in fact doing the only thing I came out of college really knowing how to do--drive a taxi.

It's impossible to tell if the cynical approach is the right one for this particular conflict, one that quite literally determines my (our) future. The carrot of limitless possibility and bright-eyed earnestness sure looks a helluva lot better than the stick of becoming a soulless "Hollywood" "player" out of a sick feeling of guilt over letting a lifetime of debt go to waste. But that earnestness will die, and at the same time that guilt will most likely enable me a fairly comfortable lifestyle for myself, so the question becomes is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Do I let my bright eyes become jaded so soon? I cannot allow myself to let my soul die this swiftly. Our earnestness, or zealousness (or even zealotry), our drive to succeed is what has bound us to each other, or at least what has bound me to the people that I've come to call my closest friends. It's this guilt more than any other that drives me to succeed in the truest, purest, most spiritual sense of success. Not the guilt of the empty diploma case sitting in my room waiting for its prize to be mailed to be in 4-6 weeks. But the guilt that I may let my friends down. That I may in fact have been riding on everyone else's coattails, that without a direct circle of support I may never be a part of anything I find to be important ever again. My biggest fear is that without you I am nothing, that all this time I've been faking--tagging along on the brilliance and creativity of my peers. In short, in a post-graduate existence, am I still going to be cool?

I have friends that have written books, directed films, music videos, and experimental art pieces, started websites and businesses, and produced some fantastic musical creations, all before even graduating, and I'm glad to have known them. And while this discourse may seem to be off-topic and personal, it should in fact be all that decides this theoretically universal post-collegiate conflict. I spoke of earnestness and how it will fade, but there is strength in numbers. Without such a strong support system, I would have long since yielded to the shadows of familiarity, cowering in the face of true freedom, and for this newfound confidence I am ever-grateful. But now I look forward to a future on my own, where people come and go, but the idea stays the same. This is my earnestness, my wide-eyed view of what's to come--that even though I may be shedding a layer of skin, a new one will grow underneath.

So to the Class of 2009, I (and who am I but one of you?) say this: Look to the future, don't cling to the past. It'll only get you down.

Nicholas Coppola: Spolier of Victor

In the jagged age of youth, the pimpled populace continues to opine their plight while living in the greatest empire in recent history. At least that's what I've seen when I've bothered to look up from a screen (Did you know there's a place on the internet that allows you to feed a fake carrot to a real bunny?) For a fluff film, National Treasure gets talked about. A LOT. I suppose it presented a mythology while educating me on my Nation's history. The film made be proud to be an American, eager to learn new things but this educational utopia was ruined in the film's last moments. Nick Cage and his love interest are standing on his estates. She hands him something under the guise that she made it for him. He looks at it in his, utterly befuddled, asking, "It's a map...What for?"

The female character responds "You'll figure it out." before scampering to her mansion.

The film fades to credits. The past two hours presented ciphers and adventure but am I to believe that Nicolas Cage's character doesn't know where the clitoris is located?

And that's why pornography is more popular than History.

If Murdered I'll Know Who Dun It?

I recall the halcyon days of High School. In particular, I remember the particularly bland days of Sophomore Year. I'd yet to fall in with the film crowd (ie Nick & Dan) and dedicated large chunks of time to playing 3 on 3 basketball games for Pizza Hut Pizzones. I was without a car or money, so my unveiling my predatory basketball skills was my best way to procure the new confection. I'm always up on the new confection as evidenced by my favorite game of trying a new food daily. Budgetary constraintz have limited this goal but yesterday I managed to nick a bagel stick with a premeditated cream cheese filling. The future's an amazing place. One day bagels lead the snack world in vibrancy. Tomorrow? Wall-E will be courting yours truly.
I spend a lot of time with past incarnations of Joel Walkowski. If unguarded I find myself falling into the egocentric Director of 2004 and with the NBA playoffs (blase but still the NBA playoffs) airing nightly I revisit the Charles Barkley entranced six-year-old of June 1993.
I'm still watching basketball even though it's the same old show. Charles Barkley retains the same tongue-lashing presence as he had during his playing days. Maybe even more so despite his recent DUI arrest because he was en route to "the best blowjob of his life". It's the same feeling aside from just Barkley. I've dabbled pretty seriously in both film and writing. My obsessive nature pushed this on me b/c I didn't want to pull a Tennis Player and get burnt out too young. Coming out on the other side, I'll gladly declare film the Winner. I believe the best book is better than the best movie due to the self-reflexive nature of the beast. What book's lack? Chill moments. I saw Star Trek the other night. I don't know Spock from a Frock. My interest: I kinda like space. Stars are cool and such. They glow, we rotate around them, Heidi's Dad managed to make a career out of it. The film blended a fun plot with philosophical ramifications, giving pastiche in hard-bodied young actors. The creamy brown thighs and lightning blue eyes were secondary to moments beyond the film, far from the story, moments in which you care not for context and feel a physical sensation from the on screen splendor. It can come in a jaw drop, a shiver down your spine, or a seizure if you're an epileptic unfortunate enough to view Pokemon: The Movie in theaters. The closest a book'll give is a paper cut.
Without fail the whirl and wizardry of pregame Motion Graphics gives me a case of the ol' shudders. I'll never understand the full significance of Romans going to cheer their Gladiators for regional prominence and the wine-soaked orgies that followed, but these pregame hi-jinks make me happy to be an American, striding the couch with FunYuns in hand. Viewing a game is an all-too-often fruitless activity but the pageantry never lets down. Witness the first two minutes of this clip from the 1993 in question.

It worked then and it works now.


The primary reason I like Sports is that, unlike other cultural sticking points such as films and comic books, the designation of Hero and Villain is yours to choose. Even better, you get to watch their exploits play out in a real time Universe with graphic pizazz dictating the action. I watch these games with envy, confined to the solitary life of a quasi-artist but why can't it be like that. If you want to embarrass me bring up a Dearborn Press and Guide article written on me in my Senior Year of High School after I won some video competition. I'd yet to throw down with Brock or think about what I was doing, I just knew I enjoyed it. This naivety produced the quote "I just want to live in a cave and emerge every few years with something great...like Stanley Kubrick." Ha! Dare I point out the level of douchery, single-mindedness, and utter disgust of such a statement? Art is a beautiful collaboration. Without a career in Sports, I clung to art for the challenge, creative free flow, and camaraderie above all else.
When you're young and hang out with another, interactions are limited to watching a screen, playing a popular game, etc. Then you get a car. In my case the car was a 1993 Mercury Villager that instantly became my domain. I took out the back seats for Hay and a bowling ball. Days were spent tooling around Detroit with Dan and Nick by my side. The criteria established in the Van was to weird out others, make a nuisance, and generally feel free at the expense of other's comfort. We were nearly arrested many times. It was wonderful.
Outsiders would witness our antics (applauding other drivers at stoplights, parking on a dark street and honking until lights came on, etc.) and respond "You're going to get shot."
That might be the case. After speaking jibberish to a bystander the other night, that journalistic rabblerouser Hoopster, pressed me to explain my actions.
"I don't know. A great big feeling wells up and the weirdness is impossible to contain. It's pretty self serving but it makes the world, albeit only slightly, a more interesting place."
Yeah...uh...ok.
Last night, I was headed home from a Tenori-On session when a pedestrian crossed my path. "Bork!" I cried. "Bork! Bork! Bork! Bork!" The man didn't respond and I skipped into the night. A few houses down, I heard heavy footsteps behind me. It was him! I thought of running but was too far gone in confusion to flee. He was gaining quick so I turned around to face him. He was one of those fellows with hair of string indicative of a hard-scrabble blue collar life. He was smaller by miles but I was the one who was scared. Something animalian was in his eyes.
"I thought you called my name."
"No man. I'm just being weird y'know."
"You sure you weren't calling my name."
"No I was thinking of these creatures I created called Borgs so I started making Bork noises."
"Ok."
He started walking in front of me. He was wearing headphones. I let him continue two houses in front of me. When I reached my house he stopped. Ears filled with metal, I don't know how he heard me. He turned around, his profile glinting under the Sodium Streetlight. I ran inside, locked the door. I went to the basement window. He was still watching.
I fear I struck him on some unknown level prompting his return. Perhaps he'll come back, toting a double-barrelled variant of something awful and demand an explanation linking him to "BORK!". I'll only have shrugs and sheepishness. Maybe he'll shoot.
In closing, I have enough good people to make movies with I think we can manage to be preserved in Motion Graphics before our lot's up.

Yeah, like so what, if I'm lame

I can't eat a piece of pizza without finding myself at odds with the Animal Kingdom by way of Avery, my plodding dinkus of a dog. Things frequently held in my hand are limited to books, balls, and food. Ever the optimist, she's certain I'm always holding food. I'll enter a room, close the door behind me but she'll enter, preceded by the mole-like mountain flanking the crown of her head. With thirteen years under our belt it's too late to call it quits but I'm having second thoughts about including a Dog in the RV adventure. How much tongue-waggling can one man endure? Americans reserve the pursuit of happiness under the constitution but this begs the question. How can such a lofty goal be achieved when one is constantly besotted by a brown dog tongue (not even pink but brown). She's only on the good side of one person. The person in question is an Indian Immigrant and views Avery as something of a novelty. He says goodbye to her when he visits.

When a writer has nothing to write about he gets angry at the Dog. When a filmmaker has no camera or Nick Olah, he gets angry at the dog. I don't doubt the existence of female writers/filmmakers (I've met seven) but I trust they're compassionate enough not to utilize their canine brethren as emotional scape goats.

The hatred for Avery has subsided and I've found my eyes attuned in a constant glower at my cat Zeke. My fury is such that I will pause this posting to poke him in the side on say something taunting... He's become the mantel of my scourge for following his animal instincts and assaulting a Rabbit embryo.

My mom discovered an eyeless lump writhing in the ground. Her first reaction was to bury it but she called me outside. After a relatively minor discourse, we decided to rescue the bunny to be. We set him up on a heating pad, fed him milk off our thumbs, other good things. I got out her pedicure set and removed debris from his wounds with her tweezers. I think I forgot to wash them before putting them back, if I bothered to put them back at all. A dubious query if there ever was one.

To hold something 1/5000th your side? To have the "little dude" as John coined him lap warm milk off your thumb? To watch his ears unfurl and give him a rabbiteen appearance? I posed these things as questions but don't know why. It's a really good feeling.

UPDATE

Fuck it all. The mortal coil has slipped away. It's just one big roller skating rink and your skate rental has just expired. The poor little dude passed away earlier this afternoon. I will not see a blind person without considering you. My chances of someday having a blind mate are now obsolete.

Goodbye Little Dude.