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