Bring Back The Hindenburg

Shameful Pride Part I- SO DAMNED HAPPY

2009-11-22T16:38:00.000-08:00

Author's Note: For the past few months all things Hindenburgian have been neglected. Capturing decaying cities and eroding into the Vallejo lifestyle consumed all aspects of existence. I'm back with guns blazing and eyes aglaze to bring you...ANOTHER SPORTS POST! Fuck it. I ain't even ashamed. Days like today are the reason why I'm in love with antics of mongoloid 1 athletes.

1 The word choice of "mongoloid" has a nice cadence but otherwise makes no sense. It means Asian. My preference for Asian Women does not extend into the athletic realm. Otherwise Jerseys of Dat Nguyen and Ichiro would hang in my closet...if I had a closet.2

2. Clothes are kept in a bin that lives in the back of my van.

*****3

3 Typing those five stars again felt damned good. I haven't written anything with passion in months. I'm glad to have this piece of my soul back.

OK. The post starts here. No more messy footnotes.4

4 I mean it.

*****

Have you ever experienced the feeling of shameful pride? I first felt this emotional phenomenon in the presence of the great Ben Zurawski . My fellow Pollack came to visit me in Chicago, where I'd been studying animation and petty crime with great ardor. We went to an Italian restaurant in Wrigleyville. As I recall both the meal and service were quite excellent. Upon exiting the restaurant we were startled to find that an Eve 6 concert had sprung up during our meal. Neither of us had much appreciation for Eve 6. In fact, we rather hated them. Still, we were happy to see them live. Ben summed up the experience as "the first time I've ever felt shameful pride."

I got hungry last night. Wanting a nosh I drove to Taco Bell at 3:30 in the AM, ordering a Burrito and a Bacon Flavored Quesadilla. The clerk asked if I wanted any sauce. My reply was something to the effect that I'm too lazy to open sauce packets. She joshingly offered to open the sauces for me. I agreed.

"Are you serious?"

"If it's not too much trouble. I'm sorry. I just can't pass this up."

She opened three sauce packets and handed them to me. I tried to read the labels and dropped one. I gave her a helpless look. She reciprocated with a decidedly unmerry laugh. I paused to emphasis my seriousness. She opened another packet, placing it in my palm.

"Don't drop this one." Why? She would've given me another. I drove home, hoping to brag to Jeff. I pride myself on a library of bizarre human experiences that I share in moments of bliss hoping my friends will nod before reveling in the World's Weirdness.

The Taco Bell Packet Fiasco is a classic strange experience but falls short due to lack of innocence by those involved. Though proud of the packets I felt like a real douche as well.

. On one hand I felt cool and cocky in a Ferris Bueller sort of way. On the other hand, I made a minimum-wage employee of Taco Bell open my sauce packets for me in exchange for a smile and a bit of playing dumb. It was outwardly manipulative and rude. The sort of thing a person shouldn't be proud of. The sort of thing Dan Lawlor lives for (he makes this a beautiful art form...just ask The Wacko).

I still thought it was cool.

Shameful pride.

Being a Detroit Lions fan makes me feel the same way.

Jeff doesn't like Sports and the dogs don't speak yet so I don't talk about Sports with too many people. Having spent an inordinate amount of my upbringing discussing sports with Nick, the Scaramuccis, Bryan, and Tom Guttenberger5

5. Dear Tom,

If you ever google yourself and end up reading this I hope you aren't too weirded out. Afterall, we haven't talked since Junior Year of High School when I turned into the Dearborn High Weirdo. I probably seem like that same weirdo for mentioning you in this blog about Taco Bell when we haven't spoken in seven years. Nonetheless, I heard you're doing well. Our Moms are in the same Water Aerobics class together. From what I gather the women in these classes wade around the water and gossip about their sons. Mrs. Scaramucci is in the class as well. That's how I found out about David Scaramucci getting a girlfriend.6 Actually, Mrs. Scaramucci is as well. It's kind of weird that of the 5 people mentioned in the sentence in question (six if you include David Scaramucci and not just John Scaramucci) that 60% of them have mothers in the same water aerobics class.)7

6. My mom found out and called me. I care more about David Scaramucci's love life (Beav and Beavette 4 life) than I will ever care about my own.

7) The class instructor is Mrs. Knox. Her son Kevin was my boss at Ford. Our relationship had a lot of shameful pride in it. EX: He once defended me for refusing to wear socks to work.

That got away from me but here's the gist. Though I don't discuss sports there is still a wealth of sports related conversation inside me. If I hear the faintest mention of sport I will suddenly inject myself into the conversation. I have shameful pride for this as well. A) I get to talk Sports B) I'm the weirdo who harasses you about the Cover-2 Defense in the produce section of the grocery store.

People are usually nice enough to include me in the conversation. It's amiable until I mention my love for the Detroit Lions. This always makes people smile. They shake their heads in disgust, usually uttering something along the lines of "that's tough".

But is it?

Ohio State University recently published a study of Sports Fan Psychology. The study concluded that those with the most negative emotions towards their team derive the most enjoyment from their fandom.

Full Results Here

I'd agree.

Roughly 1989

My Dad (love you) sits my 3 year old self before the television and puts on the television. I didn't understand what football was yet I was transfixed by the brilliant blurs of green. From that day forward, Fall Sundays were reserved for watching Lions Football. I started learning. The blurs became people. I saw Barry Sanders. The people became poetry. Then, at the same juncture that they became part of me, the Lions became terrible. Real terrible. It's no exaggeration to say the Detroit Lions are worse at being a professional football team than any other business is at any other thing. The ineptitude induced riots. Granted they were in Detroit but still.

I haven't faltered in my fandom. I guess shittiness transfixes me. Fans of good football teams like to argue and prove points. That isn't necessary when you can only cheer ironically. Life had a great running joke. Saviors would come, regimes would change but nothing ever brought much hope. I felt honored to cheer for such a team. If a Special Olympian wandered into the real thing wouldn't you pull for him?

This morning brought the same motions. Down 24-3 before my first cup of coffee, I could do little but stare bleakly. The scarlet letter's no trouble but having it stitched on each Sunday still blows. I swore them off for the ninth time this year. Then the amazing happened. We won. It wasn't even a fluke. We stormed from behind, overcame adversity, and found a hero in young Matt Stafford. I've seen plenty of great games but never from my team. Details

I feel elated and confused. Sure beats shameful pride.

A Long And Winding Letter To My Friend Bryan Hood Regarding The Atrocities Concerning The Bazooks, My Fantasy Basketball Team...

2009-11-22T10:06:00.000-08:00

Author's Note: The following is a long winded argument on the behalf of my fantasy basketball team & the true nature of reality. It is also an epistle. Due to these flagrant offenses against common interests it should not be read by anyone.

Dear Bryan,

I know you could sense it. My NBA Fandom slipping away in the throes of adulthood. I accepted an Olive Branch to your Fantasy Basketball League not realizing you'd conspired with David Stern and the bodies governing MCLs, Wrists, and Andrew Bogut.

You can connive all you want. I've forgotten to play Fantasy B-Ball due to other activities (namely: starting a team for my trailer park and building shrines for my Dad as he entered into heart surgery). Once my life had been dealt with I got around to checking my roster. Kevin Martin, Michael Redd, Andrew Bogut, and Mehmet Okur are all down for an extended count. Three crushing injuries. It would be four but my census decries Bogut and Okur as the same person.

I'm battered. I live in a Trailer and eat out of garbage cans. My scent is now rancid. My hair now frayed. But fuck that noise. I, Joel Walkowski, like many before me--including Hannibal Lecter--have retreated from our world into the sojournist library universe constructed by my mind's eye. This dimension is a good place to be. It is far from Vallejo. A dog's single gesture is accompanied by a thesis text on Canine Development. Instantly browsed, downloaded, and placed in a fireproof box for nowhere is safe from fire. Also in this dimension: lots of gravy, drunk for celebration in lieu of Whiskey. The world reserves gravy for meat and milks. The kitchen of my mind, manned by a bewildered seventeenth century Squaw, stocks the pantry with gravies for all foods and most concepts.

I do not want to leave this place. I want to stay and happily wither. You, Bryan Allejandro Bianco Domino Pachinko Hood, have ruined this, rousing me into reality by the stone cold hand of your Yahoo Sports and the nefarious AutoDraft, incarnate of unhappiness.

At the time of our draft I was busy whittling ships. Of course not actually whittling ships. Activities are passe. Conceptual Activity is the new black. I will now close my eyes and count to ten.

1
2
3
4
Nebraska
5
6
7
8
9
10

A new pair of loafers now flanks my feet. Not actually but enough for warmth.

No one could blame me for missing the draft but Yahoo AutoDraft has no space for forgiveness. Looking at my team, I survey a series of wonk busting misfits, a loosely guilded & muchos uninspired collection of the 2005 Phoenix Suns but only the dregs. Amare, Marion, Barbosa. Give me a time machine and we're even. Goggles and all Amare's a skunk. Marion's gifts are manifested in Dallas with Dirk but the apparition, now satiated on success, has vanished from the box score. Barbosa? I'm fairly certain he was kidnapped over the summer. Steve Kerr and other dunderheads atop the Pyramid (scheme- R. Sarver) have yet to notice and I am the victim.

Insults are not limited to the Seven Seconds or Less Canon as the rest of my roster looks like this:

G
Leandro Barbosa
(Pho - PG,SG)
31%-----------SG
Peja Stojakovic
(NO - SG,SF)
AtlW, 96-8854%.4171.0005.71417431000G
Ronnie Brewer
(Uta - SG,SF)
DetW, 100-9744%.500.5000-15533120SF
Shawn Marion
(Dal - SF,PF)
64%-----------PF
Jason Thompson
(Sac - SF,PF)
@HouL, 113-10672%.500.7500-15540120F
Anderson Varejao
(Cle - PF,C)
PhiW, 97-9131%.0001.0000-4720200C
Andrew Bogut
(Mil - C)INJ
@MemW, 103-9863%--0-0000000C
Mehmet Okur
(Uta - PF,C)INJ
DetW, 100-9776%--0-0000000Util
Jeff Green
(OKC - SF,PF)
57%-----------Util
Michael Redd
(Mil - SG,SF)INJ
@MemW, 103-9848%--0-0000000BN
Kevin Martin
(Sac - SG)INJ
@HouL, 113-10630%--0-0000000BN
Chris Bosh
(Tor - PF,C)
74%-----------BN
Amar'e Stoudemire
(Pho - PF,C)
57%-----------

Cruel Karma made this construction.

Peja Stojakovic: His bust is being blazed for Springfield as basketball's pompadoured answer to baseball's Steroid Superstar.
Ronnie Brewer: So inconsequential that if he fell in the woods with millions watching and an army of Sennheisers and Sony 744's recording there would be no noise.
Anderson Varejo: We all agree that he is the enemy.

My sole salvation is Mr. Chris Bosh, coming to my aid with contract year nightlies of 27 and 12. He loves the Internet. He loves my team.

I must run. My Sunday morning is busy with Detroit Lions football followed by handfuls of pills. I'm not going back to my universe. My team is in last place. Seeing the circumstances--a last place team--I have no choice but to engage my reality and set you in my sights.

Godspeed.

We Own The Night Starring Scatman Crothers

2009-11-15T09:27:00.001-08:00

Did you know…
…The Atlanta Hawks are doing surprisingly well this year.
And that my roommate is from Atlanta
A City in Georgia
Referred to in nomenclature as the A-T-L
Yet no one in the Tall Trees Trailer Park will play a game of catch with me.
And that the office number of Tall Trees is
707-252-7247

The preceding paragraph was probably an easy read and slightly enjoyable at that. However, punch packed by the prose is nil, if any, for none of the aforementioned facts carry any weight, significance, or bearing on your being.

It’s been like that lately. In a lot of ways. I can’t help but feel that the world—even things I love—is comprised of commodities composed to be as frivolous as engineering can allow. This perspective cannot be unseen by the mind’s eye. See it once, even a glance, and the rest of your visage will be a smidge smudged.

I love football more than all but four things. A few Sundays prior I thought to myself, “what a silly game”. Loving gridiron warfare I proceeded forward and watched Matthew Stafford toss interceptions with reckless abandon (like the warehouse fires mere blocks from his home field) but I couldn’t shake my notion. My vision was altered. The lines (1080p) blurred as I stared at a muted image for no reason whatsoever.

I don’t identify with this. It isn’t me.

That being said I’ll be up early to watch the Lions tomorrow.

You don’t have to identify with all you love but a basic humanity would be nice.

I fear I am not making sense. Let me digress. Here is a meaningless bit of my past.

I used to be obsessed with Tom Green. By obsessed I mean crazed, driven stark mad with idiosyncratic, constant impersonation obsession. I’d watch his show (the aptly named Tom Green show) before terrorizing my middle school teachers by turning their classrooms into a debauched series of reenactments.

The apex of my obsession came with “The Bum Bum Song” in which Mr. Green rubbed his bum (or buttocks) on various objects while narrating his escapades over a crisp hip-hop beat. I believe he wore a prosthetic rear as well. In anycase, a music video was made. I’d tune into MTV’s Total Request Live, watching as the video for the Bum Bum Song ascended the ranks of some obscure database fueled on misplaced teeny-bopper adulation.

Tom Green retired the video after it reached number one on TRL.

I thought this was a poetic gesture.

In all likelihood it had much more to do with commerce. While a cute piece of self-promotion for MTV, the Bum Bum Song did not serve the musicmakers MTV was designed to serve. TLC was molded for world domination. Taking a backseat to a rubber bum could not have been a merry blow. The same goes for “NSync even though they were formed to perfectly emulate Orlando. They succeeded in this. If you think teenage girls went crazy for ‘NSync than you’ve never seen a young girl visit Orlando. Nor have I for that matter but I can imagine.

The Bum Bum Song was a trill piece of trash. By believing in this song and Mr. Green’s efforts I was mitigating the self, extinguishing the fire from which are souls are dredged.

*****

My goal is to do things humans ought to do.

On this note:

My new dream is to walk for twenty-four hours straight. When the hands of the clock complete their second cycle, I will lie down and rest, regardless of where I am. Be it street or subway, I will slumber.

The world belongs to us all.

I’ll be taking my piece later this week. Let’s say Thursday. Join me. Do whatever you can to do whatever it is you want.

See you bitches in Valhalla.

PS Haven’t written much lately. 2
about the rust. I could’ve been doing a lot—like self promotion!—but I’d rather do nothing than bullshit.

PPS Buy Typing With One Hand by Hoopster Jurich.

I Had to Concentrate to Stare at The Light

2009-11-14T02:48:00.000-08:00

I had to concentrate to stare at the light. At the center it was a wash of white, details indistinguishable, clearly the source, but nothing clear about it actually; outwards came a reality forced upon me – that I did not choose to see, not consciously at all, but its luminance projected before me the world all around. My eyes showed me the light was there. My mind told me it was true. I had to concentrate.

I had to concentrate to stare at the light. There was no detail in its center and my eyes begged the questions, “Where is it? What are we looking for? Why must we look for it?!” – and my mind said only, “Try,” for my mind was confident and also curious. They gave it their best, my eyes, they glanced steadfast and they glared, ignoring the sense of pain (that was only fake), arisen of the inability to see all they intended, and indeed they were not good enough.

I had to concentrate to stare at the light. This challenge became more difficult for my eyes, and even my mind began losing its confidence for confusion. My eyes, though they refused to turn away from its eminence, the light, it was taking over, and everything that once was clear and visible, now, it was less than so. “Keep trying!” and they did their best to obey – no one able to lend a hand in the endeavor, not my ear, mouth, nose, not my hand, and my eyes continued trying to serve their only purpose.

I had to concentrate to stare at the light. My eyes, well they lost focus, and my mind, it tried to compensate. Where they lost details my mind filled in the gaps, when colors blurred my mind tried again to separate them, and when reality faded… my mind insisted. My eyes were gone, and “it” was up to it: my mind.

I had to concentrate to stare at the light. My mind surrendered my eyes because they did not function. My mind. The light. Alone in that moment were my mind, the light. My mind; the light. My mind – the light. My mind: the light. The light: my mind. Everything and nothing became the same white color, and it was only that color that became at all. “White.” Thought. My mind. “White.”

I had to concentrate to stare at the light. No more did even time exist. The light. It was not. Anything. My mind. Thought. It did not. All that was was only what it was, and not anything more (no less), and there I was also, just sitting, and being; I was, it were, not concentrating, not staring, not anything: not anything in front of a light. Then, my eyes, they focused on the tip of my nose. My mind - it followed.

I am staring at the tip of my nose, though there’s barely enough light to see. My nose – it breathes out. My nose – it breathes in.

With A Bloop Scoop, A Chimney Swoop, & A Rudder Full of Mud

2009-11-05T19:30:00.000-08:00

Life is happening. All around us. With very little editing and less to be done. I saw an old DVD player strewn about the local Methie's trash heap. A Patrick Swayze DVD (Ghost) was trapped inside. The pottery scene was waiting to be sniggered at but even with a screwdriver I was unable to free the DVD. I could download a torrent or turn on late night cable but it wouldn't be the same.

Do me one favor. Whenever you find a discarded videotape, DVD, CD, book, or any form of communication: give it your time & effort. Listening to the universe bears copious rewards.

The spontaneity of found objects went unmatched by anything on broadcast television...until tonight. There is a show called Taxidermy Trails. The host, Dan Brantley, greets you from 1996. He puts his dogs in a box, puts the box in the back of a pick up truck & drives to the woods for hunting. From there, Mr. Brantley skulks through the underbush until killing something. With the animal dead he hoists it up for a series of comedic poses before gutting the animal and turning it into a piece of art.

Every commercial was for the Pennsylvania Institute of Taxidermy. It wasn't just one though. PIT had 8 commercials for each demographic (including women! Ladies? Not cut out for cosmetology school? Then how bout filleting some foxes?").

I was transfixed by this. As if abducted into the Deep South.

I feel the same way about life right now but can't go any further with this explanation.

The Scissors Aren't For Shearing

2009-09-29T18:31:00.000-07:00

I recently moved to Vallejo, California. A place I knew nothing about.

If someone requested a Vallejo fact, I probably would've said, "Vallejo is home to every different kind of Beetle." I would've been completely wrong but not that far off. One thing about Vallejo: things are good aqt existing here. The town is almost perfectly divided down racial lines, half urban, half rural, and home to California's first homosexual mayor. People are too busy living--jobs, mates, meth labs--to stop you from doing the same thing. This collective mindset is ideal for the rise of a black market in the Raley's parking lot. Bootleg DVD's are brandished from the popped trunks of rusted automobiles. Things like this happen in the first decade of the twenty first century.

Pictured above, is a card I made for a local grocery clerk. Something about this town makes grocery clerks come alive...Rick S...Irma...Howard...Lydia...Yours is the siren song of the real America.

There are glints upon Rick S' chest. These shimmerings can be traced to candelas, magnified and refracted, by his bounty of customer service medals. Were they mine I would throw them off the bridge and into the river but they are not. Tokens, handed down by commercial empires as "signifiers of success", arew taken as exactly that. They are not ironic. It is not an insult to dole out food to Vallejellians. Rick S does his job. He does it well. The medals show this.

Also in Vallejo: the Zodiac killer. The Zodiac killer killed many in the 70's and terrified a region. You could call him the worst man of the 1970's. You could also call him the opposite of Rick. S.

The Zodiac is opposite of many things.

I saw the Full House House yesterday. Hoping to find a piece of our childhood, Jeff and I drove for two hours without realizing that we disembarked from the Full House House to find the Full House House. Reminiscing about a popular television is unlike killing canoodling couples.

We drove last night. We left the city behind. To the farmland. The clouds had never met wind before. They sat, stolid & high, waiting for a breeze that would never come. We were lured to the boonies, not by present temptations, but the fleeting touch of the 1970's. Zodiac killed his second and third on this same stretch of road. Primal anger, bustling through his every vein, removed him from humanity and made killing others seem like a right & proper thing to do.

Housing a man like Zodiac isn't in a city like Vallejo's best interests. I only found his territory because the clerk at Raley's told me about it.

"You Want Me To Be Cool? WELL I'M NOT!"- Bootsy Collins

2009-09-22T02:11:00.000-07:00

Taking account of my current affairs it is difficult to know what's going on with anything. Two questions need answering: "What the hell am I doing?" and "How far can one fall?" The soul's contemplation adheres to these lines when one's body moves into a trailer park.

The white trash elements are not lost on me. I have literally no money, I'm liable to take a job at McDonald's, and there are two dogs running around shitting and pissing. Also: I do not eat food & my sandal has a hole in it. My toe pokes in it. I do not enjoy this because it heaps attention on my toe. I don't own any nail clippers. The nail is ingrown and quite painful. I wince at these steps as I stride through the San Francisco fog. The world is terrible for a few minutes. Cesspool commences. The fact that Joel Walkowski lives in an RV with a Georgia weirdo eats dog food is no longer cool. Then Joel remembers why he's here & doing what he's doing?

What the hell are you doing?

Exactly what I want to.

That's right. I'm the world's worst street performer :)

Untitled from Jeff LaPenna on Vimeo.

2009-09-03T18:09:00.001-07:00

Hi...Again

2009-09-01T15:01:00.000-07:00

Down to the mononucleosis walls, E.C. is defined by one thing: a rampant and unerring professionalism. His services are renowned the world over as words like punctual, succinct, and gruff are bandied about. His gaudy resume is three pages thick but such things don't matter in a time of recession. The callers have quelled and E.C has been forced to take low ball offers from a rag tag bunch that is fresh out of film school to put it mildly. He works with them for three weeks. The professional rapport grows into burgeoning friendship. This lends itself to good natured ribbing before one announces to a room full of emissaries "E.C. is visibly aroused."

E.C. is confounded. His only retort: "I can see why your girlfriend left you."

Welcome to the world of filmmaking. I've been stuck in this world for the past three weeks with scant time to monitor e-mail, survey pornography, or live the lift of a human being in even the mildest sense of the world. I don't know if I can write anymore. Could creativity be washed away because of too much contact with Detroit Grizzlies? Of course not/I hope not.

I recently produced a documentary film about Detroit. Once ironically referred to as "Paris of the West", Detroit has degraded itself into a cesspool of strife and abandoned buildings with junkies milling about their corridors, wondering whether to assist or stab the neighboring film crew.

From the first time I picked up a camera and pointed the lens towards my Dad's bald head I knew I wanted to be part of this field. The pursuit of making something beautiful, creating the universe as you saw it held an indelible mark and allure. Sitting on couches with fellow wise cracking film school students, we'd watch a film. We'd ooh and ahh at a good film. If the film was bad? We'd let loose. Fuck manners. A bad movie deserves nothing but scorn. We'd mock the craft, the creation. Not even title sequences were immune. "Trajan? What an original font!" Followed by giggles of course. It's easy to degrade from one's high horse but after being in the fire I don't think I'll ever poke fun at a movie again. (Lie). For one thing, it's hard. Labor aside, filmmaking exists in a frenetic world where 16 hour days are the norm. You're weak if you want a family. Even weaker if you want a break. Work well and try hard and you might find yourself in the fraternity, labeled as a filmmaker with the extra paunch around your gut to prove it. I commend anyone whose ever worked to put a piece of life into motion picture form. If it's good? Then I fucking salute you. "Where is the ice?" "Do you have the permit?" "Where do we park?" These questions are among the hundreds I received daily. To be able to wade through this muck and realize you're making a movie is one thing, to do the same task with a vision for quality is the work of saints.

Why are so many movies bad? Dude, there's no time to think about the movie. Over the past three weeks, nothing has warranted a quiet consideration of the film's quality. In this industry the sole objective will always remain: GETTING IT DONE.

Enough about film. It's pedantic and droll. I never want to be the consummate professional acting affronted at invisible hard-ons. Life's a game and film should be too.

I told myself this was my philosophy for making films. I used it as an excuse to play football.

Football was a big part of our shoot. I skipped out on interviews, opting to play catch in the street. I would play with anyone around. This pursuit of sports brought me into friendships with crack addicts, Crunkstop, and whoever happened to be walking by at the time. This past Friday, we were stationed at a halfway house in Virginia. The responsible producer would've and should've kept tabs and arraigned dinner for the ravenous crew. It's a solid task but it's hard to get up for anything that doesn't directly help the film. I surveyed the grounds. A meadow stretched before me. I could;ve sat and watched it for hours but distraction laid in the left of my vista. A basketball hoop. Gathering up the ball, I surveyed the grounds and found an inmate willing to play. We played One-on-One with him ultimately ousting me 21 to 16. Most of his points were scored on jump shots with a touch that could be described as feathery. I was struck by this. If I were locked inside twelve hours a day, my muscles would jangle into a coiled ball. Given my freedom and a sphere, I'd be surprised if my shot didn't soar over the basketball hoop, let alone the entire state.

I considered myself a Detroiter since birth. I was born in the suburbs. I'm white as they come (I like Hall & Oates). When I first stepped into the city's dregs on a location scout I was terrified. Who knew what awaited me in the pitted houses and storefronts. Flash forward a single month. I'll go into the same areas, utterly comfortable even though there ain't a Pier One around for miles. In an abandoned building or crack den my first thought will be: Who wants to play?

This is a random collective of yammerings. It has to be the way. It's been so big, so intense, so eye opening that I'd have to write another book just to capture it all. If I know you, you'll be hearing about this from me for a long, long time.

I'm back.

It's A Great Time To Own A Dog

2009-07-12T23:57:00.000-07:00

I have a swiveling chair I use for swiveling more than sitting. With blue lights, of the upper crust Christmas variety, hanging overhead, there's nothing I enjoy more than a good spin and wonder session. I sat down a few moments ago. Dog's are man's best friend. This is true in the case of my mutt, Avery. She's tethered to my trajectory. It might be strange to follow larger creatures around for food. But being the creature in question, I see her wisdom. I am usually carrying a sandwich.

When I sat, Avery came over, panting with old dog emphysema. She shook herself off. I got flecked with little drops of liquid. I thought the roof was leaking on my wonders. Then Avery rattled her canine form again, recommencing the shower. This second episode was the prelude to the stench of urine dancing across my nostrils. A few feet away, amidst the aluminum rugs, sits a puddle of smoldering piss.

Thanks!

Leon Russell- Out In The Woods

2009-07-07T21:52:00.000-07:00

Hello. I hope you're having a good day today. I don't know how you define a good day. I generally prescribe to the theory that a good day includes fundamental human joys--good food, music, creativity, dancing, usefulness--all of which may be exacerbated by the presence of friends.

I like to give gifts. I have lots of ideas about fun things to do (Gerbil Fireballs, anyone?). If I really like you, I'll probably tuck you while singing a song about you. I'm not a good hugger but I'm working on it. I am all of these things but it doesn't change the fact that I'm a difficult person to know.

*****

Friday Night.

I spent the evening working on a cartoon and drawing strange creatures until the Hoopster stumbled in. His goal was to whisk me to a party because the girl to guy ratio was in the surplus. I insisted on shaving but didn't. I showed him some films and we went to the party. I spent it as a lying ball of awkwardness--spewing fibs without provocation. Hoopster got drunk, danced, and hugged girls. He's a very good hugger. After a while, I couldn't stave off the temptation of jungle juice and I insisted we leave. I took him to my home. I took off my shirt and did push ups in the driveway.

Within minutes, Hoopster wanted to punch me. It was a flash of drunken whimsy but the sentiment was repeated throughout the weekend.

Hoopster went home. I went inside, feeling quite empty. My eyes weren't besotted with sweat, the day had amounted to nothing; YET AGAIN! The apathy turned into hunger and a desire entered my heart. I wanted to see what I could do in a single day. How far I could stretch my mortal coil before it came springing back to home base. After a brief chat and ensuing inspiration, I dialed the Hoopster.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"
"Nothing."
"Let's go to Rothbury. We'll feel alive."

If you play the we'll feel alive card, people have little choice but to go along with you, no matter how foolhardy your plan may be. In this case my plan was very foolhardy. With no money, an unreliable vehicle, and a vague connection in the form of pizza slingers Brock and Ryan, I was going to traverse the state and go to a music festival. The thing about music festivals is that their an annoyance. A slew of unsavories descend, take drugs and steal from the local gas station. I suppose this is why the majority are held way out in the boonies. This wasn't a Detroit Rock City moment. I had no attachment to either of the headliners--the Grateful Dead & Bob Dylan. In fact, the only band I love (Girl Talk, which isn't really a band) had already finished the plan by the time I decided to leg it out past Muskegon. This either makes me fun or a nuisance, presumably both.

I drew two drawings of hitchhikers. Then I wrote my Mom a note. It read:

"Mom,
I have no money or a clue. I only know how I feel inside: stagnant and old, like the remnants of mayonaisse after a hard rain, sliding around disgustingly with nowhere to go.
Went to Rothbury.
With Hoopster.
Hopefully Brock can get us in.
If not? L'aventura!
<3 Joel"

Hoopster arrived and we set out through the night, talking about girls and peeing on the side of the road as we whiz banged across suburban structures until the night grew glowy and the farms numerous. We stopped for a fill up around Lansing. I nearly conviced a drunk to get in the car with us. He was all in but grew reticent because "ain't no females in that Van."I don't blame him. It is a very suspicious van. For all I know his presence would've altered the dynamic and the entire lot of us could've played out the final act of deliverance with him in the role of Burt Reynolds and Hoopster strumming the dueling 'jo.

They wouldn't cash my checks at the gas station. 150 miles out we were without a dollar. We would've had some money left but I spent my last buck on a Nutrageous. It would be the last food I bought that weekend.

When the sun took over, illuminating the Grand Rapids Press Building like some oceanic site, the wheel was relented to Hoopster. The rest of the drive flew by as I stared out the window, seeing airplanes that may or may not have existed. Hoopster didn't see the airplanes but I saw signs for "Remote Control Outposts" They were strewn up on farmland. It may have been a prank.

We didn;t know where we were going so we pulled into a gas station for assistance. I couldn;t get to the register. Upon my entrance I was immediately accosted by two gentlemen with the strangest beards I've ever seen. It was like a racoon hung as tinsel. On both of them! They tried to sell me wristbands. I told them I was going to sneak in. They laughed and gave us bad directions. Thankfully, an older couple pointed the way. They seemed like perfect blips, able to come in for a moment's servitude and nothing more but it wasn't meant to be. I saw them two days later, necking in a hammock. I didn't bother them then.

As we neared the festival we formulated several plans for sneaking into the festival.
1) Pose as reporters from the Oakland Press.
2) Work as Pizza Men.
3) Masquerade as Pizza Men.

Rolling up we found out that there was no press entrance. We went through country back roads before stumbling upon the entrance where security guards were busy searching cars. I saw a man pour out his salsa. A man named Shitty, adorned with a weed leaf chain, offered us breakfast beer. Hoopster stepped in and explained my explosive vomiting habits. We went to will call who sent us to a middle school down the road. We rolled up in the Van and told our story. We were reporters from the Oakland Press. I was the photographer because I wore an expensive camera around my neck. Hoopster was the writer because he was practicing for his future as a journalist. They bought our story but a system was in place. You needed to be reigstered in the computer! How I long for the halycon days of the 80's when bullshit could fly. We stammered away, leaving them to wait for a phone call from our Editor, Dan Lawlor, that would never come. Soon after, Hoopster squelched the plan in case he ever worked for the Oakland Press.

We walked to a gas station to glean information about the fest from the local papers. No information was gleaned although in a comparison between Rothbury and Kids Fest, it was noted that Rothbury attendees favored LSD and ecstacy while Kid's Fest participants favored lemonade. This Kid's Fest was not to be dismissed as it was headlined by Third Eye Blind. I was thankful Heidi wasn't with us b/c I wasn't ready for a kid's fest. I dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and a furry sweater, abandoning walking in favor of a romping march that brought the fur hood bip-bopping over my head like Pac Man Chomps.

Everything comes full circle. Attention Skylakers: Pac Man has returned!

We settled into the Van, only to find it out of gas. It wasn't actually out of gas but it likes to pretend it is. She's a big needy broad, willing to do anything so long as her stomachs full. Without 5 gallons in her tank, she'll refuse to start. In the past week, her PMS episodes have stranded me on Michigan Avenue, at a bank, and in a Middle School Parking lot. A valuable lesson was passed through this annoyance. Men love to help other men push their vehicles. Consider it the cave gatherings of the American Roadway.

With no gas, we settled in for a sleep, but an older man talked to us for a really long time. Full of fatherly pride, he'd supported his son's company by trucking 30G's worth of audio equipment to Rothbury from Allen Park, Michigan in support of "Thunder Audio" his son's event audio company. Though well versed in stereosonic vernacular, the man's knowledge of Automotive Insurance was devoid like, I don't know, a desert? A mole's bank account? The shiver of timbers? Something clever to be sure. He kept talking while I hunkered in the back and tried to sleep. No rest was had. Eyes were shut for a few minutes but we were too restless and alive. We clambered down the road. I played a three-note ditty on the Harmonica while Hoop screamed lyrics. I told a man "Have a good Sunday" without realizing it was Saturday. Laughs were had. We approached the field of entry, flanked by school buses, vans, and a versimiltitude of beggars. They were Dead Heads for the most part, living a life on the road; begging, borrowing, and stealing to find their way. I suspect they moonlight as accountants or carpenters.

Immersed in tune, we circled the field until realizing we weren't along, as a man with a train whistle was joining in. Marching up and down in a silly hat, he hoot hooted his train whistle ad nauseum. We stopped and spoke. He explained that he was a Dead Head.He was a Dead Head. He'd been following the band (ie taking drugs) for 31 years. He didn't have a ticket or money but was sure that, "One way or another I'll get into the show. 5000 Dead Heads will be here tonight. We'll march in because the music belongs to us." Such confidence, exuded from a derelict who'd abandoned his family (in California!) to be there, touched me in a weird way. My eyes shot upright and open and as I began to speak I found my voice raised an octave and stilted by stammering. "That's a beautiful statement. I believe you'll be in there. I really do." Then I touched his shoulder. He blew his train whistle and marched away. A few minutes later I spotted him in combative conversation with a police officer. "Fuck off!" echoed across the parking lot.

We talked to a few Dead Heads, marveling at their ethos. Not only does the music belong to them but everything does! A few lines of conversation would inevitably be followed by requests for cigarettes. I had no cigarettes so I had no guilt. The only thing I had was some candy I found on the ground. I munched on the candy until remembering Gas Money, the cross I must bear as proud owner of a GMC Safari. Hoopster and I rooted through the garbage, collecting cans and a full arsenal of germs. I suspect this is how I gathered the cold I now hold dear. It's the price you pay. Cans are worth ten cents in Michigan. Scavenge a tailgate zone and you'll get paid. With a few bushels full, we lugged them to the van.

Along the road, we fell in with a muckraker of a girl named Star. A nymph of 18, wearing a mohawk adorned with beer bottles. Her life is traveling to shows, scrounging rides, and maintaining the harmonious state attached to a fly by the seat of your pants existence. Unlike many enlightened (ie Weirdos) she held her state without gravitas. She called us out on our bullshit. "Why isn't this your life?"
"I don't know."
"Make it your life. Like today. Come to New York with me."

I loved her for living like I can't yet. She respected Hoopster for going to school and me for having a tattoo. She helped us load up the cans. The Van started. We went to the Gas Station, grabbed some snacks, and waited while she pooped. As we munched our PowerBars we were joined by the most exploitative couple in all existence.

The man had gray dreadlocks and Lennon glasses held on by bejewled strings.
The woman was a waifish acid type, all song and no heart. Standing between them, toting a sign boasting "We need a miracle" their three-year-old daughter begged passersby for tickets.

I asked the man to show me his Van because he had a sweet rack on top along the lines of a white picket fence. He responded with "You like original music?" before trying to sell me a CD of his wife's music. I didn't budge but I must respect his opening line. Original Music leaves no response. "No. I only like music t robotically fabricated to combines all music ever recorded. You can strain for days without hearing a single chord."

Back at camp, things were simmering. I'd accidentally insulted a Dead Head by complimenting his pants. I couldn't talk to them anyway. Their life style would infuse certain connotations into my RV laden future that I can't take right now. I want to own a microwave. I don't want to yell at dogs. Not having a microwave and yelling at dogs seemed like a requirement for nomadic existence.

I had to do something. I decided I was going into the concert. Hoopster didn't want to go. He waited in the van and read Doystoyeyesksiski. (intentionally butchered).

Along the highway I fell in with Cole, a man from Indiana. He was attended the show because he "fucked up and enlisted in the army". He had a borrowed bracelet that security guards sniffed out but was desperate to get in because this was his "last chance to do drugs before boot camp." We spat out small talk before cruising through the brambles and hopping through a hole in the fence. I was in. Tents splayed out in all directions. People were barbequing, singing, dancing, and generally acting like fools. I loved it. Walking through the lot, I felt at home. I didn't have to be the fool or comic relief, I could simply be an observer. As an observer people slinked up with backpacks, bestowing strange offerings.

The sky was overcast and a light rain trickled down. My pants got quite heavy. Coupled with the lack of sleep I became made of stone. In a good way. I tried walking in but there was another bracelet outpost. I struted around the campgrounds, waiting for Hoopster to arrive and took a nap by a fence. People in green shirts were guarding all trash cans for recycling's sake, which made it difficult to scrounge for bracelets.

After sneaking into a Lake, Hoopster managed to get into the Rothbury campground. I saw some people from my high school but was too busy eating popcorn, rummaged from beneath a car tire, to be friendly. No one's friendly when they're hungry.

Sizing up the infrastructure I felt it was time to go. There was a small gap, guarded by a security guard. I felt we could get in. Part of me knew I was going to get into this festival. I told Hoopster "We're getting in." We walked a few paces, strong virile paces until Hoopster clammed up "We're not getting in." He stopped walking but I couldn't. Seeing the security guard roused a great strength. I knew I was mightier than him. I knew he couldn't stop me. If he mentioned a word I would run. I shut my eyes and walked as fast as I could. I walked right in. It's amazing what you can do with confidence. A 300 dollar concert ticket wasr free. Hoopster watched from behind. Enthused by this moment I had two options.
A) Call Hoopster and apologize
B) Run, Jump, and Scream.

I chose B. I ended up losing my cell phone and keys. Friends had to rescue me.

He's supposed to be like a moth, get it?

2009-07-03T19:25:00.000-07:00

Dear Italy

2009-07-03T17:59:00.000-07:00

The Wise Man told me
"If there's something you are lacking
Give it to the Earth and it shall return to you in turn."
Before I left
He gave me a candle.
He'd like many more candles.
I skulked off, towards the leaking Basement I call home.
It smells of sewage but I don't mind.
In the kitchen, a sandwich was made
By my very own hand.
It had: ham, lettuce, mayo, tomato, and bread.
White. Not Wheat. Not Rye.
I wrapped the Sandwich in paper towel
and wrapped the paper towel in my finest wrapping paper.
Snoopy. Christmas Edition.
I set off in a dark night towards some semblance of civilization.
None could be found.
I spotted a lonely Oak instead.
I put the sandwich in a hole that held shiny objects.
"For my friends the Raccoons"
I walked home.
I haven't eaten since
How would I?
I don't even know where to begin.
I'm now a raccoon.

"Hello Heidi! Hello Joel!" from Jeff LaPenna on Vimeo.

I received this video greeting from Jeff the Pen, our wayward sergeant in arms, who's spending his pre-RV stint in Italy, teaching kids English in theatrical form. I was warmed by the greeting. I know Jeff regales them with stories of our friendship. I do the same to the figures in my life: the dog, the cat, the man in the crawl space. They like to hear about my friends. Zeke the cat is softened by tales (tails) of adventure although he has trouble telling the difference between "fun" and "adventure". I tell him not to bother.

I decided to respond to the kids in turn. Of course I took the opportunity to slander Heidi via video collage.

FOR THE KIDDIES from Joel Walkowski on Vimeo.

R.I.P. MJ

2009-06-26T14:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, circa 6PM.

I was lolling around the house and toying with a basketball when I decided to head to the kitchen. Before I could arrive in the kitchen, an electricity burst through my being, freezing me in place. The feeling spread through me. I couldn't move or see. If it hadn't been for the chance of laying a hand on a nearby chair, I would've fallen over; collapsing on the carpet to be licked by a dog. The feeling escalated. My eyes went blind and my mind was immersed in a blitzkrieg white aura of electric light. I'd felt this feeling before--when nearing mortality's edge.

I was terrified when I emerged. Fearing another medical episode was near I stood completely still for several minutes. Then I received a text message. Like a good citizen of the 21st Century and Pavlovically programmed to boot, I went over to check the text. It was from my Mom. "MJ had died."

I'm pretty sure I felt him pass.

Weird.

Goodbye Michael.

I'll remember dancing to Motown as a little kid, throwing myself against the couch cushions to the sounds of his pre-pubescent voice. Michael was the definition of Superstar as I came up. His aura and presence, made the world a far more interesting place. Listen to some early Jackson 5. Hear his tender-sweet voice on ABC or Rockin' Robin. The sounds are synesthetic. I know those emotions, the experience of being a heart-broken phenom is close at hand. It's impossible not to be thankful for such a person's existence.

From finding the Great Narrative in Earth Song to dancing with 12 years olds, Michael's been in the musical landscape.

Blare Beat It and wave goodbye to the soundtrack of our lives.

Call Wacko!

2009-06-24T19:34:00.000-07:00

I recently found something that filled a profound gap in my existence.

When I threw up blood I happened to throw up blood on my favorite pair of black basketball shorts. I would've proudly worn my bloodshed but Brock and Appu have higher standards for my sartorial choices and opted to throw them out. Since I don't cash my paychecks I spent today conniving a way to obtain a pair of black basketball shorts. Then, I found a pair on the basketball court. Wee!

That's not what I meant to talk about it all but things escape sometimes, like dreams in the night.

The profound gap in my existence has been filled by an intern. My intern is Nick Olah. So far his responsibilities have included discussing the NBA Draft and making prank phone calls for legitimate business reasons. He's leaving a negligible effect on the finished product as am I in a weird way but his presence alleviates the monotony of waiting in a library or filling a prescription. Crossing the lakelike threshold of a business day in Michigan Summer Swelter, we move with brisk business like strokesm, flecking the day with fun by way of sojourns to Arby's for free Arby's. (Blogging about Arby's is copyright of Beavette).

Today. We were picking up a prescription when a Yellow Pick-Up Truck caught our attention. Emblazoned on the back of the pick up truck was a Demon with an eye popping out of his socket. It dangled down to a small logo that read "Call Wacko" then listed a phone number.

We called Wacko immediately. He picked up with a voice that sounded like Malt Liquor. "What's up dude?" was his trademark beckon. Nick asked "What's up?" Nothing was going on with Wacko.

We called again. I discussed the possibility of him doing a "tatt-oooooo" of the Hindenburg on my back. He was a perceptive listener at first but my flamboyant pronounciation of "tattoo" drew his scorn. He swiftly hung up returning to waxing his boat, gelling his goatee, punching Dogs, and other activities of the Wacko. The Wacko does not tread lightly. He moves through this life, taking his desires and no prisoners. Sex on the first date? Never. Wacko has sex before the first date, before he even meets you. That's how the Wacko rolls.

His football shaped eyes are that of an Artist. His football shaped gut is that of a Patriot. He smokes Camel Wides as he swims in above ground pool. He has had fourteen tattoo removal surgeries so he can "redo the canvas with sum current shit." He's removed an American Flag for Ronald McDonald. The portrait of his mother has been editied into Brandon Inge. Brandon Inge is the troll-like Third Baseman for the Detroit Tigers. Before this season his bat left something to be desired but his hustle and defensive acumen have branded him as a "scrapper", a status that nestled him between the clogged arteries of White Trash Hearts throughout Southeastern Michigan. Inge is having the best season of his career, elevating him to deity status. Since season's inception Wacko has added wings, horns, and a spatula to his Inge tattoo.

I called Wacko again. It went straight to voicemail.

"This is Wacko. You know what to do."

Yes I do. All thanks to you.

Viva La Responsibilite

2009-06-12T08:47:00.000-07:00

After spending the regular season and playoffs in the guise of a fan aspiring to be a Sports Writer, I've shelved this approach of witnessing. As it stands, I've viewed every game on the NBA finals through the Imagivision, which is similar to Disney 3-D in it's impressive composition. This seat (the best in the house) allows me to enjoy the game while paying no attention as I shift into long-winded bullshit with comrades.

Examples of potential bullshit:
-Trying to make the most disturbing drawing I can. Asking Heidi to do the same. Hanging drawings on the refrigerator.
-Debating how much pizza to get.
-Wondering why humans enjoy sports?
-Debating the foundation of ambition.

Now, if there was one thing I could be it'd be a professional athlete. First, playing games is fun. Second, you get to do so in Arenas brimming with fans, their screams forever distorting your sense of hearing but exacerbating your sense of self. Third, you get to look cool doing it. Dwight5 Howard wears an array of arm bands that provide no medical need but make him look buff. I do the same thing. Serious pick up football games are played on the Weekends in Dearborn. As the biggest player and best receiver, I dress to intimidate and scare, often opting for a Women's Lions Tank Top. It is the rare item that can make a man appear buff while accentuating his cleavage.

The best moments come chasing down a stray ball. These are bliss like only Joshua Tree or Skylake can provide but they aren't what I get excited about. When I imagine these games the lot of us are dressed like warriors, engaging in camraderie, etc. In short, we act like morons. Sheltered kids making believe to become football players.

I write. I want to be a writer. I try to only write when I'm feeling inspired. This helps the writing but does not help me become a writer. I'm pretty obsessed with purity. I've played the game of wanting to become something and found it extremely unsatisfactory. This is why I haven't sent the novel out. It's also part of the reason I'm living in my Mother's basement. Doing things for the right reasons? Honoring thy muse? What's the importance of all this except to self-sanctify?

The world is open to possibility. This lends itself to ambition. Ambition usually comes in two forms. 1) I enjoy doing something and want to make a career of it. 2) I'd like to be something. It seems cool and would maybe help me get laid.

I'm a big proponent of number one but it is called into question. Last night, I was thinking of all the roles within the Earth. Filmmakers produce visual media for others to intake. Mailmen distribute our memos. Computer Technicians do something vague that no one actually understands. With infinite cogs it is noble to deem a role as your path or is it better to fall into it? Human beings do a lot of strange things. If you were to forget all and see civilization as it sprouted would you ever imagine that this is what we become? Operations have shifted to super-scale with everyone more or less playing the game of reputation. This used to be the thing I feared most about becoming. Why not? They are making movies of Board Games! Board Games!

I'm not sure I can express this thought. I'll just be someone and my standing will tell it for me.

Hey Ross!

2009-06-10T14:57:00.001-07:00

A Letter To My Friend Jeffrey LaPenna

2009-05-26T13:14:00.000-07:00

(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

2009-05-22T21:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-20T05:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-18T21:58:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-05-14T10:43:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-11T11:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Fun With Holes and Not Fun With Holes

2009-04-29T04:22:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-04-21T02:49:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-19T14:39:00.000-07:00

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!!!

2009-04-16T12:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-09T19:36:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-03-31T22:34:00.000-07:00

There was blood on the floor
Blood I vomited out
Before passing out
On the floor
In the blood
And thinking it was Tuesday
and my shirt was a sweater
I borrowed
Which was problematic
Because in my deathbed delusion...
I borrowed it from Brock
And Brock needs his sweaters
Like a Rhino needs his rage
And a Lighthousekeeper needs hi beacon
Of light. Bright, ebullient light.
Another brush with death later...
I'm alive
Happy
And Fulfilled!

Exaltation and happiness aren't the most compelling things to read about so I will share this anecdote from today in which a man, a very fat man, rejected every protocol and rule of society and the human condition.

It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon and friends had a free afternoon by warrant of a leaky gas main in the brand new cinema school. We decided to galivanting around and went for a swim at Heidi's place. Nick peed in the hot tub. We were all thoroughoughly disgusted.

Walking to the car we hear a booming voice, "TONY STEWART! TONY STEWART!" No biggie. This is Los Angeles and celebrity sightings are quite common. We pull out of the garage and in the adjacent intersection is a naked man. Roughly fifty pounds overwight with tattoos crisscrossing his backside. He was in the middle of the intersection, stumbling about until a city bus drew his ire.

He walked up to the bus, a DASH, and began punding on the windows with his hambone fists. We couldn't make out what he was yelling but hoo boy was he railing about something. Then he gave the sky the finger. When the helicopters came, buzzing about like urban dragon flies, he continued the gesture to the infinite ire of the LAPD.

The cops came. A man is usually a man, but sometimes he is something else: part animal/part imbecile. Confronted with the spectre of eight guns drawn in his direction, the man reached down to his genitals and masturbated in the direction of the gunmen.

They marched forward, slowly but surely, as the cries of "Fuck the LAPD" built to a crescendo. They shot him in the chest with a taser. He went limp, harmless, and fell to the ground in a gentle pile.

Across the street a Mexican was selling roses.

Hello My Name Is Paul Gleason

2009-03-19T22:13:00.000-07:00

Perhaps the greatest curse of Sports Illustrated, aside from the much ballyhooed Sports Illustrated Curse in which those (people, teams, institutions, ANYTHING) appearing on the cover find themselves afflicted and free-falling from past glories. For a fan of Sports and Sports Journalism, the vision of one of your loved ones on the high gloss cover is the same as a black cat crossing your path, an old Cajun giving the evil eye, or waking up next to a Jack-o-Lantern. For further proof ask McWriter, his Cubs appeared just before last years playoffs when they were heavy favorites to win the NL. 3 games later and POOF! The Cubs had flaked and the Curse had struck again.

(Note: I wonder if the curse is reserved for officially mandated Sports Illustrated Covers. Perhaps the black magic resides in the font or layout and not the approving editor. If so, I'm drawing up SI covers for the Celtics, Red Sox, Kenny Powers, and Rush Limbaugh)

The other curse is the same dooming journalism as an entire industry. It comes too damned late. Just yesterday I received my weekly allotment. It comes on Wednesday in Los Angeles, a day earlier than in Detroit but it was too late. The latest issue featured an article (Check it BRYAN!) on Lamar Odom and issued a parable of wisdom that amounted to the beauty of running away from it all, turning off the phone, and experiencing great silence.

On St. Patrick's Day Afternoon, I received a call from the ignominious Hoopster. Crestfallen at the elusive nature of Young Ladies he regaled with a tale of being left alone in a Hotel Room. If a geographic locale ever threw salt into the wounds it was this: the room was in Ohio. I guess I said some stuff. I guess it was pretty good, good enough to warrant a call from Hoopster saying "You make me feel bad and good at the same time. I'm sorry for always calling you with my troubles." Keep calling Pete. Someday Sports Illustrated will come at the right time and the wisdom of Lamar Odom can prompt a night of reflection and reverie.

I am always happiest in the home of another, at least until it becomes to feel like home. I am a goofball, a rollicking bag of adventure, impressions, sad soliloquies, and other traits that supposedly make me feel like me. I am surrounded by friends, wonderful beautiful friends. If not for ya'll I would have in total honesty lost part of my soul. They're wonderful people each and everyone of them. We're a clique all our own, a new archetype that spins universes and funny pictures instead of discussing things we saw on television.

When my friends leave home, for Spring Break on this occasion, I like to slink into their homes, inhabit their spaces, and slink into their essences. This is a task best done quietly, with few others around but I doubt you'll find another tactic that caresses with such catharsis. In January, I was my Dad. Last May, I was Jeff somedays, Nico others, but found it oddly difficult to assume the domain of Brock (In fairness, the room was a hybrid between him and McWriter and had the lingering sour stench of the lovelorn. It was however, a great room for reading.)

I have just been informed that I have done something terribly wrong. I'm so so so sorry. During this sojourn, I've decided to become Paul Gleason, my friendship infatuation du jour. Brock just stumbled in from break and informed that Paul is extra sensitive about his things. I listened as I typed on his computer, his pride and joy, neglecting to inform that I was wearing one of his shirts.

Paul, I hope this doesn't cause a rift in our friendship, because to emit it honestly, you're my new hero. I want to study under your care, not the specifics but the energy, the unassuming ball of ebullience.

Paul's room is designed to soothe. It is lacquered in like the surface of the tide when seen from the Santa Barbara Mountains. Some pools are dark and foreboding, advising one of the depths below. Other panels are an electric baby blue. In between the panels, the trim is painted white. THE TIDE. There is an overhead light but I don't use it because if I were to have a list of things I hate it would be as follows.

1. Abusing substance without reason but submitting to the compulsion.

2. Going to a party and being forced to watch Youtube from politeness more than interest. This is inevitable. If one shows a video, natural instinct is to one up, leading to a defacto film festival of News Cast Farts and Kanye West Music Videos.

3. Overhead light from above like God, blathering light into every crevice, making us all appear a bit uglier.

Thankfully, Paul's room has an abundance of colored lamps. It would be a good place to smoke Hookah in. There are also two comfy chairs.

Adorning the walls is a mix of framed pictures of personal importance and typical posters (Hendrix, The Beatles, Homer Simpson) that are hung unapologetically and thus beautifully. Everyone watched the Simpsons growing up. I hang with a gang of filmmakers. The influence is strong enough to nearly tinge every character yellow but when Groening's gift is brought up it is almost certainly to opine the show's (questionable) downfall. Paul parades this love for what it was, what it is, and that's makes all the difference.

The influence of Paul, coupled with a fruitless job search that made me doubt I'd ever evolve from this creature, shed soft light onto the disconnect I have with my past. I consider past triumphs, even the recently completed novel, as creations of a different being exclusive to the moment of germination. Living isolated in the moment is no way to live. Over the past few days, this realization has spurred an onslaught of selfish behaviors indicative of, well, kind of a dick (I'm sorry Bryan!) but I'm surrounded by people constantly and having cast myself as an attention grabbing hog, I am too weak to demure from playing my role. It gets tiring and loads on an obtuse pressure to perform. I believe that, if given attention, one has a nearly moral obligation to entertain but do it enough and it becomes vapid.

Last week, I had the first reading of my novel The Giant Explosion That Killed Everyone, perhaps the nearest and dearest endeavor of my short life. The novel had many goals, some of which are still being unearthed, but paramount was: to chronicle the feelings, fears, hopes, thoughts, and inklings that make up the current me (at least in that moment). If you are close to me and reside in the greater Los Angeles area, you were there. I thank you so much. I look forward to conversation and criticism from you all upon the book's reading but at the reading, the book's baptism if you will, I was too jittery to read with any confidence. No amount of Franzia could cool my nerves so I read to get through it, even skipping one of my favorite passages out of fear of boring or offending Li Lu. Only when Jeff, Heidi, Brock, Nico, and Nick read could I be proud of it. Once I was out of the spotlight. Once I wasn't, like so many times before, preening for approval.

Things are different now. By becoming Paul, albeit for a few days, I've rediscovered the home within myself. Food tastes better, the breeze feels cool against my skin, etc. Today, for the first time since viewing Wall-E and Dark Knight this past summer, I enjoyed a film. My life, impending homelessness, and RV aspirations coalesced into dust and wisped away into the darkened theatre.

Paul, whether you know it or not, my respect and love for you has skyrocketed. Your space is you while my space at home is covered in old bowls of Macaroni. My sincerest hopes for this life.

1. Be happy and human through good food, company, and athletics

2. Step foot on every continent and collect a vial of soil.

3. Live with Tess someday.

4. Don't be an old bowl of Macaroni

5. Hand out a flower a day for a year.

Thanks Paul. I feel like I've been meditating but I've only been watching the Simpsons.

I Am Seattle, Hear Me Roar

2009-03-15T22:29:00.000-07:00

This is a picture of a very dangerous man. He enjoys playing Soccer, going to movies with Friends, and other pursuits gleaned from religiously viewed reruns of Saved By The Bell.

Been there, done that, that's that.
Mom's don't give up. To a mother, the cord's never been cut, just growing to accommodate moves across country. I have no problem with this arraignment aside from her insistence on eating "Textured Vegetable Protein". With no job, bicycle, car, or immediate family, I've been cut off from the world in a tower of garbage...In a good way. No. Not in a good way. It's habit to use that word.

With nothing to do, I've pounded my soul into atrophy by refusing to feed it. His belly is stretched high and wide at the moment. Hence: I'm very happy to be alive, be here and be me. It's so easy to get lost in the tedious and WHAM BOOM a month has passed. I almost went on Spring Break with the gang. It would have been fun. I would have gotten to get even MORE poison oak and revisited the happy forests of the Nicene Valley where no one can possibly hurt themselves. Such fun would have been decadently opulent. Fun's...well fun but I don't need to have fun right now. Hard labor, books, and ham sandwiches are the altars contentment lays around.

Living with four of your friends changes you. If a poop's over a foot, you don't flush, sanctifying your porcelain dome as an excrement Hall of Fame. You share meals, booze, and occasionally women. If you don't share the woman, you'll at least share an infatuation before concluding that everyone in the house feels the same way. Finally, and moreover the reason most live with friends is that it's really damned fun. The dancing, the drinking, the binge nights of HORSE. There isn't a single thing we haven't done in the past two years out here. If variety's the spice of life, mine's Indian Food, so spicy it fills the entire mouth with flavor, leading to future diarrhea.

I'm living in Los Angeles, Ca with friends and the pursuit of film making because I thought it would make me happy. It has for the most part but there is a lot left untouched. This lifestyle takes a toll on your wiring,, so afflicted was I, that by the time I stayed for three unfettered weeks at my Father's farm in Indiana...without another soul to see in the night...the living situation that had been normal since domesticity started resonated as a religious experience.

Talking with others about the experience, everyone basically gives the same answer.
"I just want a plot of land to call my own."

Happiness will soon come from pills.

I never finished this post but felt like throwing it up anyway.

2009-03-06T10:52:00.000-08:00

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! BASKETBALL RELATED CONTENT! COVER YOUR EARS AND PUT GRANNY IN HER PANIC KNICKERS!

With that out of the way, let us proceed into a series of anecdotes that illustrates why "The GReat Narrative" is the only pseudo religion worth making up. Amen.

Rasheed Wallace had the day off Thursday. So did his team, the Detroit Pistons (though located in the suburban locale of Auburn Hills, Mi). Athletic careers consist of practice, patience, and preparation. Anyone can be good at hooping up in the moment, it's those that carry the torch through all waking hours that stand out. When Rasheed works he only averages about 33.3 minutes of clock in time per night. Those 33.3 are a one man parade of yammering, towel throwing, and dances as the volcanic center of a circle of men swirling in turn. He has his own dance. Students of dance would say "That is a very good dance."

And it is. He jumps in a small circle, waving fist crested hands to and fro in epileptic bouts of striation. (Author's Note: WHAT IN THE FUCKING SHIT FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKMISSILE IS THAT LAST SENTENCE?!?)

Through out his playing career, Rasheed has been a wonderful player, reinventing the PF position with an influx of finesse. Finesse and yammering. However wonderful Sheed is as a player, he is far outshone by his personality. Sheed's world is one big argument. He is frequently ejected from games for yelling too much. This temperament has adverse reactions for the team but even the misers in charge know enough not to siphon a man from his passion.

With his day off Rasheed did what most millionaires do...watching television. considering purchasing a power yacht, and smashing lizard heads with a pointy rock. Do not blame Rasheed for the lizard heads. It is a culture of lizard smashing that is the culprit. Don't let these Monopoly man antics fool you, on the day of March 4th, Rasheed Wallace was anywhere and everywhere, editing the universe to bring us closer together.

The day began at 8am by a telephone call from the telephone company. The reason was clear enough. They wanted money, when was the last time a customer service representative called you up just to talk.

People hate courtesy calls but I LOVE them. I attach a body to the disembodied voice on the other end of the line, wondering where they are and what their lives might be.

Rules For The Road (Jeff You Have To Revise This Post In Bold With Your Additions)

2009-03-05T12:45:00.000-08:00

Life is a futile, furtive gesture. It is the burden of mankind to find meaning in the intervals interspersed between nurturing the mammalian needs of screwing, eating, sleeping, and talking about Gallagher. I use the word "mammalian" because my life in no way, shape, or form resembles that of an Alligator or Insect. I do not soak up the sun for energy. I do not flap my wings, flit about, and suck skin, leaving a scourge of sores in my wake. I, like you, and you, and even you, am basically a Gorilla. I wake up in the morning (or past midnight), toast a bagel, and try to make sense of all this shit.

This mindset has...
- Turned Basketball into a great sprawling narrative of gladiators and villains with meanings behind every jump shot or staunch defensive stance. I only wish I had this mindset with the 2004 Detroit Pistons. What wonderlust champions!
- Made me push against any and all barriers. My favorite thing in the world is walking the streets of an unknown city with no destination. On these walks I observe and recognize, taking brief detours for conversation. Yesterday, a 400 lb man maligned the stain on his sweatshirt
"See this gravy stain right here? That's why I don't buy white sweat shirts."
My response: "Then why'd you buy it?"
His response: "Gotta stay fresh".
We met as he flirted with a security guard outside Union Station. Moments later, a Georgia old timer from a place just south of Chattanooga took my hand and drawled in my ear. "You're a healthy young man. Anyone would hire you for anything. It's gonna rain soon. I have half a sandwich from Phillipe's in this bag. I'm taking it back to Hollywood." My response: "Did you get extra horse radish?" His response: "Of course. I'm there every morning. Meet me for breakfast."
-In addition to these approaches, I always take on a big project. I'm lost and toothless without an insurmountable task to sink my fangs into. This is why I made a movie at 17. Made a play at 18. Finished a Novel at age 22. The last incident has drained my soul and heart and has been both the best and worst experience of my life. A post is coming. A "Dear John" to my alter ego Charlie Hoofing III.

Simply put: I'm wired to do things for the sole sake of doing them. This approach has given a good feeling through the last few eons but the focus recently changed from outward to inward. We are about to become a lost generation. nothing awaits. No mountains to climb. Talent, drive, and luck are lost in an errant wave of paying dues. Why? Fat pigs want to protect their profligate and go to Burning Man so they can pretend to be hippies. (Note to friends: this isn't you. Rather, an animator I met once.) With nothing to do and even less to conquer the question changes from "How can I succeed?" to "How can I be happy?"

What a wonderful change.

As I've previously stated Jeff and I moving into an RV come August. There are many reasons behind this enterprise, ostensibly to uproot and runaway, but we're chasing the mythic beasts of inspiration and happiness. I'd like to be like Tess. I want the life of an artist or at least someone who gives a shit. I think we share this aim, we have vastly different worldviews but are controlled by directors with similar styles. Our reasons are crystalline. Free living. Great friendship. Pursuing something conducive to something.

But there is always a need to be rules.

Rules for Jeff and Joel's Great Enterprise or An Idiot's Guide To Happiness.
1. Joel will become cleaner and more organized to avoid the ire of Jeff. Jeff will continue his godliness akin to cleanliness.
2. No complaining aloud. If we have a complaint. We will write it down and dismiss it into the sacred chair of Adimu, sure to dispell all worries.
3. Since this is about art, we will set 5 goals for the next year. Jeff will have 2, Joel will have 2, we have one shared goal which will become public at a later time. This is no slippery task, we will give each other weekly progress resports and view each other's work as our own (which it kind of is already). When we fall, the other will carry us. When we soar, we'll take the other along with us.
4. We will share one meal per day, alternating who cooks.
5. Jeff will learn to love beans and marinara sauce.
6. We will move around...alot but understand if we need to stay because of love or prosperity.
7. Since Jeff is gay and Joel is straight we will act as each other's wingman at all times. Your dick is my dick, vice versa.
8. The RV will be adorned in all sorts of decoration and only be referred to as "the roving battleship."
9. We will do something new once a week.
10. We will eat a new food everyday.
11. Joel will take ballet classes and boxing.
12. Jeff will own a shovel.
13. On the third Wendesday of each month, we will buy each other a toy. Less than ten dollars.
14. We will have an hour of quiet time per day.
15. We will make one video per month with alternating directors.
16. We will steal Nico's camera.
17. We will exercise at least 20 minutes a day.

More to come upon revisions.

We will keep in good touch and esteem with old friends and loved ones.
We will make AT LEAST one new friend per week, and new loved ones as much as possible.
“The Roving Battleship” will get lost at least once per month, abetting the discovery of new lands.
We will never stay in one place for too long (“too long” defined by degrees of happiness, contemporary and potential).
We will exercise self-control.
Jeff will continually work toward completing his “debut” album as a musician. This goal should not be included in the previously mentioned 5-goals goal.
We will be honest as much as possible, or – when necessary for the sake of relationship, and personal health.
We will continually expand the breadth of our artistic practices, exploring and acquiring new mediums.
We will appreciate the maintenance of life, including but fucking definitely not limited to the status of, “The Roving Battleship.”
We will give each other gifts as much as possible.
Jeff will get better at writing stories.
Jeff will keep a journal, like, in an actual journal, like, on paper and not a computer.
Monkey-in-the-middle.
We will continually look for ways to live free(ly).
We will exercise laughter.
Joel will star in at least one porno by the end of Year 1. :D

A Day in the Life

2009-02-26T18:20:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-26T07:43:00.001-08:00

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

2009-02-26T07:33:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-02-26T02:38:00.000-08:00

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?"

2009-02-26T01:17:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-25T01:37:00.000-08:00

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

Creepsters and Movies

2009-02-25T00:11:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-24T09:23:00.000-08:00

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!!!

2009-02-23T23:01:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-22T03:37:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-19T01:02:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-17T18:29:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-16T20:34:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-02-08T15:15:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-08T03:55:00.001-08:00

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?

The Goat

2009-01-31T03:07:00.000-08:00

I grew up in the Suburbs. There were two different houses. One was in a Muslim community, the other was near a golf course; both were quite comfortable. I’ve lived in a large city for the better part of three years. At the moment, I am living on a farm though I can’t properly call what I’m doing living. Snowed in, I am stuck here with no remnants of the outer world. For my purposes, existence has folded itself up and tucked itself inside of my head.

My head is getting screwed on straight and daily life is becoming purposeful. I put more high-minded fluff into my novel, The Giant Explosion That Killed Everyone, under the assumption that the right combination of high-minded fluff will become beautiful. This is not disparaging. This is the necessary fluff. The drama of the book takes place inside of a single man’s head. Using thought as catalyst for a story requires a lot of high-minded fluff. For authenticity I modeled the character’s thought process after my own. Exploring one Charlie Hoofing III, I learned a lot about myself, namely I think in high-minded fluff—gaudy concepts attached to eggs, etc. When I am not doing this I am eating beans, doing push-ups, making funny faces in the mirror, and reading about baseball.

Sportswriters use very good sentences. They have to. Sports, in and of themselves, are a metaphor, requiring the observer to instill their own sense of meaning.

Yesterday I realized it had been several days since I laughed. I enjoy laughter so I went looking for a laugh. The search for humor led me to the Morton Building, a large shed filled with tractors and miscellaneous debris. I poked through the possessions left behind by the previous owner and found a box of Hentai which is Asian Cartoon Porn. I laughed quite a bit at this I felt as though I willed it to happen and felt very powerful because of this.

I also care for the animals. This is a farm and there are lots of them.

Max is a giant Pyrenees that behaves like a bear. When the snow first fell, he would run forward and thresh his face into the snow like it were one of his appendages. He is a very good dog.

There are seven Horses but my favorite is called Honey. She is pregnant with a foal and has had three miscarriages. This makes me feel very bad for her. It must be very confusing for a Horse to give birth to a dead thing. When I am bored I will feed her a carrot or give her a hug. Hugging her is difficult, I am still very afraid of horse.

George is a Llama. I thought I would enjoy Llamas but I do not. My Father sings a song that roughly goes “I love the Llama. I love the Llama Llama.” I will never sing to this Llama. He spits at me. When he sees me approach, I can hear him conjuring spittle in his bucktoothed mouth.

There were two Goats. As of this morning, there is only one Goat. I went outside to feed the animals and saw a dead Goat on the ground. The other Goat was standing next to it, occasionally licking its head. It did not seem to understand that the other Goat, his brother, was dead.

As a precaution against disease, Dead Animals must be removed quickly. I was the only one home and had to remove the animal. We keep Dead Animals in a crate behind the woodshed. Our tentative plan is to light a fire and cremate the Goat tonight. I have never held a dead thing before. It took several minutes to work up the nerve. When I got brave enough, I picked it up. It was surprisingly light and shockingly stiff. It’s legs felt hard and cold. They were covered in fur but felt more like logs than part of a Mammal.

When I picked up the Goat, it hung limp. It’s limbs dangled, utterly devoid of life. Seeing this made the other Goat understand what death was and that his brother was afflicted. I felt very bad for this Goat. I nearly cried.

I did not want to remove the Dead Goat but I had to. I set it down and walked away for a moment so the Other could say goodbye. Then I picked it up and carried it to a red bin.

The Other Goat immediately started crying. Its anguish was so great; the strength of his howls buckled his vocal chords. One thing about Goats, they sound a lot like humans. Hearing his cries, I imagined that someday when I am besotted by grief that my cries will sound a lot like his.

Outside, he is still crying. The barn is fifty yards away but I can hear him inside the house. It is the saddest sound I have ever heard.

[Posted by resident runaway Joel "The Foal" Walkowski, via email]

the thing about fiction is...

2009-01-22T19:56:00.000-08:00

D
e
construct
i
o
n

Male: My mind is playing tricks on me.
Female: The nights are very long.
Male: No light can save us now.

When the mood strikes, writing is less rewarding than when it is forced. The fiction of inspiration is what makes fiction fictional. Application of meaning does not bestow meaning. Intention of meaning rarely endows meaning. Is there really such thing as fiction then?

Fic or non?
What's the difference?

The story of one man's Gulliverian travels through space and time and light and sound in the endless, desperate, meaningful, cathartic, hopeless, futile, sprawling, epic, heroic, meaningless, ultimately chaotic, relentlessly dark, eventually uplifting, always recurringly Faustian, Freudian, and Jungian, relentlessly Wagnerian, ever-so post-modern, but still quite classical, archetypal, historic (and pre-historic) search for meaning.

Continuity defies de construct ion. Or reinforces it. Use (or non-use) of grammar, syntax, diction, onomatopoeia, meter, metaphor, irony, simile, satire, tragedy, dramatic irony, comedy, rhythm, alliteration, pathetic irony, rhyme, close-rhyme, near-rhyme, punctuation, tense, capitalization, and/or spacing does not impart meaning.

So the question remains: Fiction? Or Not? None of this is true. Or all of this is true. But true or non, this is not fiction nor non. A noun is a person, place, or thing (or idea). This is fiction or non-fiction (or idea). I stand alone. The cheese stands alone. The mouse has been prematurely eaten by the cat, breaking the chain. There's always a bigger fish.

Perspective makes the fish bigger. We are tiny but the world is huge. But the world is tiny, the sun is huge. But the sun is tiny, the solar system is huge. But the solar system is tiny, the galaxy is huge. But the galaxy is tiny, the universe is... finite. Endless turtles standing on the backs of turtles would say that the universe is tiny. So what do we care? Our imaginations are bigger than our surroundings. If we can envision it, then it shall be done. A man will walk on the moon. There is life on other planets. We will learn the laws of space and time, and bend them to our punishing will. Always under control, but demanding control. The only way to get around physics is quantum physics.

Quantum Physics: Where Your Wildest Dreams Can Come True!

The electron cloud. Theory and practice. The act of observation and its effect on the observed space is an under/overestimated force. It's the presence of the eye that's the problem. Even in quantum physics, the question always remains: if a tree falls in a forest with no one around to hear it, does it make a sound? The world may never know.

If time is a dimension, then time travel must be possible.

Avoid pastiche. Just because everyone else is doing it doesn't make it okay. Everyone can tell if you're trying too hard. Look for fortunate accidents rather than intentional mistakes. This is not inspiration. Force the fortunate. Inspiration is not an accident. It is a con structure. Standing around, waiting for a train that will never come. But more often than not, waiting for inspiration (as one would wait for Godot [Ah! Pastiche! Such a force is unavoidable!]) forces the forcing. Inspiration never comes until the last second; then, and only then, when we are physically (or psychologically) forced to act. We define this last second rescue as inspiration, when in fact it comes from within ourselves. There is no divine intervention, no omniscient unification of the creative cosmos, no. There is no God. There is only You.

we are all alone

If one was to expose the 'photograph' of one's life, one would be in sharp focus but surrounded by the blurs of those come and gone. The imagery speaks for itself, if it's clear enough.

Constructions and structures:
God
Creativity
Atheism
Art
Pop Art
Non-Art
Intellectualism
The Intellect
Darwinism
Creationism
Classicism
Modernism
Post-Anything
Isms
Grammar
Traffic Jams
Patterns
The World and How It Works
Structuralism

Everyone has an ism. There is a right and wrong (although, really, there is no such thing). I am not anti- much. I believe, both in the Mulder-ian sense and in the theistic sense. It's all a matter of getting out of your comfort zone. Isms are your comfort zone. The decaying of an ism is radioactive. That's why there's a black President.

Stream-of-consciousness does not infer meaning. Being Irish or English or German or South African or Australian or Russian or Atlantean does not convey meaning.

Anything can be everything to somebody. The saying, as it goes: One man's trash... And the rest. You know the rest. A common axiom. Idiom. Turn of phrase. Play on words. None of the above. Fill in the blank. Idiomatic structuralism. Vocabularic inventivism. English is a beautiful thing. Use it wisely and remember its history, lest you be doomed to... You know.

So the thing about fiction is...

This has been a textual experiment by no one you've ever heard of.

Aiiiiiii Fusion: The Future of Food!

2009-01-16T08:19:00.000-08:00

Why I love Detroit: Last night, whilst killing time amidst the city's crumbling facades, I felt a great need to urinate. Unexpected and urgent, it would've caused a major fiasco in any other major Downtown. However, this being Detroit I was able to stop my car in the middle of the street without even bothering to pull to the side. I stepped out and let it fly. There was no one in sight but I heard a sarcastic whistle, probably coming from a derelict stashed in one of the many deserted train cars.

Why I hate Detroit: There is a 100 degree difference between the weather here and the weather in Los Angeles. Throw in Tacos and the arrival of the Brock Alter era and it's enough to make a young man homesick, even a man who's recently reacquired his swag.

"My Swag is Phenomenal" - Gilbert Arenas

Something about being home lends a comfortable feeling. It ain't Mom's Chili or sleeping next to my mole-riddled Dog, but the sense of having the shit figured out makes talking to strangers or even dancing at a bar all the more easier. I'm prone to over thought, over analysis, and other overindulgence of the intrinsic variety, but in the throws of home they dissapate.

This feeling is good, but what exactly is home?

I spent the past ten days, busting my ass like never before in fervent pursuit of directing commercials for a Sushi restaraunt. If you've seen the Heinz Tomato Ketchup Commercials or just talked to me about them, I've spouted off against the woes of channeling creative energy into another man's pocket. Well color me a hypocrite but I had a fucking ball of it. Before the days of USC, where everything glitters in the sun and you aren't even allowed to park a bike against George Lucas' railings, there was no organization, no goal, just the joy of the pursuit. From 17 on, the ragtag corps would assemble to make a movie, put on a play, or organize a scavenger hunt. The feeling carried over to USC at least during 290, when Paul and I turned the class into our personal cavalcade. Then, as if being groomed to fit a cog, the USC system took over, grinding down our spirits with limits on creativity, producability, and use of firearms. It's easy to rebel, fun even, but even the most rebellious sort (and trust me, I know some rebels) are stuck with the thought: "is it worth it?"

In this regard, I was lucky enough to chance into directing some commercials as my first job after graduation. Here in all their unfettered glory are descriptions.

Earthquake. A couple gets their sushi and an earthquake commences. Vases fall, tables shake but they are unbothered, opting to focus on their Sushi. Because of the quake it keeps falling out of their chopsticks but upon finally getting to eat it they get wide smiles on their faces. Cut to a wide shot of the restaurant. Outside Godzilla battles helicopters over a cardboard version of Lansing. Tagline: "AI Fusion. Authentically Asian"

Sashimi. A man orders "the freshest sashimi you have." The waiter goes to the kitchen but stops to put on galoshes, a raincoat, and a life jacket. He grabs a decorative harpoon from the wall before heading into the kitchen. From there you see waves splashing against the window and flashes of light. You hear a boat going out, the churning of waves, and the sounds associated with catching a fish. Dolly from the kitchen on a silver platter. The man enjoys the Sashimi. Final reveal: the waiter is sopping wet.

These are unadultered silliness, exactly the sort of thing I'd like to do with my life but though I spout worthless phrases of "it's great for a reel" or even "I can start a business with these", I derived no greater pleasure than gathering friends, acting like a fool on set, and turning aforementioned friends into superstars. Note: this grandiose phrase is not untrue. I called upon John Scaramucci to star in one of the commercials. It will be airing nonstop around his college campus during his college's sporting events. With those big brown eyes gleaming, it's only a matter of time for that boy.

I worked 50 out of 60 hours without noticing, laughed my ass off, and made regrettable decisions with caution into the wind. Paul's rubbed off and I'm cracking jokes in a faux gravelly voice. My best guess? That's what home is.

"A Six-Year-Old In The Body Of A Grown Man"

2009-01-07T21:31:00.000-08:00

Today, for the first time in my life I enjoyed the writing of Mitch Albom. I grew up with Mitch as my local sports columnist. Sitting at the breakfast table, my seven-year-old self spilled Kellogg's Corn Flakes over his work in a show of literary criticism. For high school graduation I was given three Albom authored books including the luminary Tuesdays With Morrie. I read the first ten pages of each before deciding saccharine was best left for the furthest coves of my unbrushed teeth.

But today, well today, Albom decided to write a column on the city of Detroit. BLAH!

There are three ways in which I enjoy reading. 1) Something luminary and earth shattering. 2) I respect and worship the high gloss prose or 3) It tugs at the nostalgic heart strings of familiarity. Yes. I liked Albom's column but I didn't like the column. I liked anecdotal mentions of Joe Dumars and Barry Sanders, citing of sights I'm familiar with, and the general fact that it took place in Detroit--my hometown.

In his piece he tries to capture the essence of Detroit. Like most serious journalism he misses the mark as he attempts to put a straight face on the toothless grin that is Detroit. It is the same sort of presentation that pervades Clint Eastwood's latest film Gran Torino. I've read Updike, I know the beauty of decaying Rust Belt cities, but the romanticism of gritty people surviving the cold under delusions of God's love is offensively insipid. No person seeks to survive. Big banners are effective, especially in the interest of writing but I'd like to think that truth lies in the small interactions. The individual essence is the most marked and beautiful of all human traits, but it never comes out when forced. Put your shine on, throw that gel in your hair. You'll look great but that ain't you soldier and you know it. Essence comes in the way one attempts to take off a girl's belt, the sheepish way the present some achievement, or their strategic route of asking a favor.

As the saying goes "if you've got it, flaunt it." Well, if you've got it you don't need to flaunt it. It's already there silly puss.

Happy 20089 (this entire post is a joke!)

2009-01-02T15:12:00.000-08:00

I see we have some new additions to this here family at the ole' Hindenburg! Well, I must extend my welcomes! In addition to welcomes I should give a swift kick in the groin. As it stands now I have no idea how I got roped into this disgusting endeavor with a dystopic group of people. I mean come on! Can you even dare to believe these aSSholes?!?

Joel Walkowski formerly Charlie Hoofing III: "Hey there ladies and gentlemen, my name's Joel. I pretend to be a writer. I also pretend to be something of an eccentric so you won't judge me too harshly. When you read my novel, the shitty work I threw together night after drunken night, you'll think "maybe I don't get this". That's true but the reason you don't get it is because I'm a self-infatuated narcissist rather than a writer. I hope the Lions pick Matt Stafford so I can masturbate to the idea of fades to Calvin Johnson!"

Oh I'm sorry Joel! Did I impede the Lions on your sexuality?!? Sorry!

Joel: "I fall in love with every girl I kiss because such events are so momentous and monumental for such a monumentally momentous pussy such as myself. I'm gonna go write a love poem, revise my novel, and play Tenori-On while pretending to be happy. Than I'll fashion a wedding dress to Nick Olah's exact measurements b/c I'm that fucking self assured! :)"

On a side note 20098 is the musical year of John POPPER. I own 3000 LPS. Paramount among these is Blues Traveler's 1994 release. I'm making it my personal "Shapinsky's KarmA" to build Blues Traveler into the modern day Beatle's for the sake of hilarity alone.

Thank God I'm sooooooooooo distant from that world. Otherwise I'd have fathered infinite amounts of children by now. My eight-year-old clique are all men by now. I am the only man remaining. I take this as my purpose to drive to the beach and wave my member "hello" to the porpoises.

Mr. Andrew McNally Aka "McWriter". I can't think of a more contrived name for a writer. What is it? Are you inspired by McMuffins? I get the Irish alliteration but this childish imitation of fast food restaurants is something best reserved for John Cusack movies. Oh wait! I'm sorry! I forgot your predilection towards understandin' the fairer sex. Never mind, as a product of Illinois and a wannabe writer I get your obsession with John Cusack. Yeah, maybe you'll be there some day! Until then, continue on the archetype path fascinating nubile (ie warm pussied ladies) bitches with analyses of Planisphere and Fukudome's batting average! Yeah, what evs!

Jeff LaPenna aka Jeff the Pen!: Wow buddy! You are so infinitely different than the rest of humanity. Do you think that, maybe, when the time is right, we can hold each other and watch the world burn?!? I promise to nibble your eaR lobes! I just want to live on an island with you forever! The isle of Man! Have fun getting tattoos pookie brains!

Bryan: Oh I'm sorry Johnny come lately, your wonderful Vietnamese girlfriend and library job entail you a moral superiority! Forgive me form questioning. Your conversational acumen intimidates me. No one will ever understand Sean Rooks' feeble marriage with Chili's like you do! You are a champion! A scholar! An employee of VKC Library!

In a nutshell... Let's break barriers!

My New Year's Resolution!

2008-12-31T10:14:00.000-08:00

This is a hammer.

I've been trying to write a blog post beginning with this sentence for over a week now. Conditions of the world, good and bad--arguing, obligations, and friends--have bound together to prevent m from doing any writing, any revising or anything good what so ever. This is no surprise. Life is a tilt-a-whirl and I'll be spun wherever the good spinning is.

Returning home to Detroit, Michigan came just in time. A part of me, a vital one at that, had wandered off waiting to baited back with the right moment. The proper mix of festivities. I boarded the plane as a 22-year-old man. A 22-year-old-man eating a candy apple but a man nonetheless.

Since stepping off the plane and eating one of mother's omelets, I've entered on a souped-up alcohol laden tour of the life I've lived so far. Unlike so many disappointments (I'm looking at you Snuggies) this stretch has swept me off my feet. Each day is cathartic, via a milestone or looking glass. My mind is fit, trained for analysis, but observing a moment objectively, it becomes quite easy to decipher what period the stance stems from. Yesterday, I was 19 in the morning as I wrote silly commercials. 8 as I discovered the sensory sensation of high definition goggles. 16 as a wonderful girl put butterflies in my stomach (literally and figuratively!).

I have several mantras I repeat to keep me grounded.

1) Peace above me, peace below me, peace within me.

2) Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! Snakes!

3) Life is about the journey.

The last is my favorite. Overwhelmingly the idea of product outweighs the joy of the process. Running about in the desert, limbs a' flailin' and pumpin' perspiration from every pore, makes humanity feel damn good. It isn't about exercise. It isn't even about where you're going. The task at hand is more than enough. Do the same thing with the aim of getting in shape, gaining a few inches on your vertical leap so may dunk, etc. There will be no good visions, just insidious visions of success.

This same problem turned writing a novel from a jolly jaunt into an intrinsic battle of the gaudiest proportions even though writing is very very very very very easy. Words are but a moment's effort, a traipsing of tendrils across the keyboard. DISCLAIMER: If you agree with certain anthropologists and regard language as purely instinctual skip this paragraph. The book is out on a paper, far from a finished product with no discernible end in sight. It could have been easily finished by now, perhaps even two or three times over but in the early going I committed to only writing when consumed by the process. If my imagination went into full tilt, prompting visions of hardcover books embossed with my name, I did not write that night. That'd be the same as masturbation. As a writer I attract attention to the writing. This is an effective tool for conjuring a voice but utterly useless when ego gets involved.

The lesson of going home, returning as some pseudo-conquering hero: everything adds up.

I'm taking a ballet class to fuck everything up.

What (I Think) I've Learned...

2008-12-24T15:50:00.000-08:00

I've been mulling this blog post for about a week and a half but never got around to it for a variety of reasons; the main one being that I've recently lost all confidence in my ability to put together cohesive thoughts on paper (or computer screen, in this case). I'm not sure why this feeling is suddenly affecting me, as I've never been all that worried about the clarity of my writing. I've always just written, trusting that someone would be able to extrapolate what I was trying to get at.

But now that Andrew and Jeff have added their musings to the blog, I guess it's time for me to do the same. I'm usually late to the party anyway.

Anyway, here goes, what I've learned (in no particular order):

I once lived in an avocado. It smelled, was always dirty, the plumbing rarely worked, and a homeless man lived beneath my window; but all and all it was a wonderful experience. A time of hope and love.

I cherish my alone time, but have come to enjoy the company of certain others much more.

John was right.

A coworker of mine constantly complains about how unfair the world is. No shit, dude. We don't have to dwell on this though.

My friends are my family.

This doesn't mean I don't like my actual family. In fact, they are quite cool. It just took me awhile to figure that out.

I like tacos. Much more than I realize, according to everyone else.

My brain is packed with loads of unnecessary information. Seriously, I can have a conversation about practically anything. The drawback is that I know little of what I should actually know.

I write in an attempt to capture the speed of thought.

The mundane is fascinating in the right light.

Don't drink out of Eiffel Tower shaped brandy bottles you find in dumpsters. It's not a good idea. Also, don't hang out in dumpsters.

I am the fasted man alive when I've had too much to drink.

Driving on the freeway alone at night can be wonderful.

I am very comfortable with who I am.

Two of the best things I've ever read are comic books.

I get way too much enjoyment out of reading message boards. It's that whole staring at a car wreck thing, I know someones going to say something awful/retarded

My syntax can be absolutely atrocious, for no other reason than I often growed bored of a sentence before I've finished writing it out.

And don't get me started on my grammar.

If I talk to you it means I like you.

Museums are the best place to go on the first date, especially if neither of you realize it's a date.

I want to grow up to be a decent person who continues to experience love and has days filled with good conversations. If I do that I'll be happy.

***

Notes unrelated to the rest of this post:

Nico doesn't like it when Joel writes about basketball, but I must take this opportunity to note that the Lakers beat the Celtics tonight. Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!

The winter of my senior year it was so cold in my apartment that I pulled a muscle while shivering in bed one night. It was totally not awesome.

I am back, after a year long vacation. Look forward to future posts written in the voice of a valley girl. We're pretty much the same after all.

P.S. This is Bryan (theoretically)

What I've (kind of) Learned...

2008-12-24T13:36:00.000-08:00

Well... I guess I'm now TWENTY-TWO years-old. When I was a kid I remember thinking to myself: "You'll be an adult when you hit 21. That's the age that you can drink alcohol legally, and so the world must trust you when you've got that many years. With age comes wisdom and responsibility." My fucking god, was I wrong. The civilized world, though thousands of years old, is as immature and confused as I've always been.

The following ramblings represent a few of the lessons life has (kind of) taught me thus far. I was assigned the task of outlining such points, and though my response has deviated from the template of my assignment, I believe it compliments the fundamental goal of the project nonetheless.

Some malformed pieces of my life --

Humans know they are important. This is a fair assumption. Under the right frame of mind anything is important, though, for humans, our existence compels us. It is our nature to dwell on... the nature of things... and so we are different than animals; the word "different" is appropriately ambiguous in this case, as our separation from animals and the natural world is debatable, yet undeniably certain. No other creature on our planet dictates the fate of its neighbors, let alone are they aware of their global existence. No - only humans watch each other on TV. Only humans have invented buttons, whose sole purpose is to submit to the pressure of a finger. There is no Tom Cruise of the animal kingdom.

Humans believe the make-believe. As a result of dwelling on EVERYTHING, humans have convinced themselves of many fantasies. Such distortions of reality now occupy our "everyday" and no longer appear as fiction, but reality. One powerful example (though not worth exploring as the argument is too familiar) is Religion. To quickly comment: we believe in a creature called "God" who shares many mystical qualities with another creature fabricated also in the depths of human imagination - The Unicorn. Neither have been seen or heard from outside of fantastical literature, or the stories of crazed (albeit intoxicated in some fashion) human beings.

Instead, let's talk about the internet, which is something we can all agree on. The internet occupies no space. Normally, when a noun cannot be weighed by its mass it is called an "idea." For example, the effects of globalization can be weighed, and are tangible, but "globalization" itself is but a term describing a human effect which occupies no real space. So is the internet something humans have simultaneously spoken into "virtual" reality, whose only appearance occurs through screens that glimpse into the 2nd dimension - a dimension where human life is impossible. And the internet is only one example of how humans insist on bizarre retardations of reality without acknowledging the absurdity of it all.

What about, "THE ECONOMY." Somewhere exists a giant pool of numbers, swirling and menacing, that determines the fate of billions - even before sperm hits the egg. I didn't sign up for this money game, and I don't think it fair that I should be forced to participate.

Reason is our most triumphing evolution, yet we love to contradict it. We live to contradict it. As a result, not much of human life, at all, makes sense.

In short: I am confused. You should be too.
See "Paris Hilton"

Humans obsess.

Human relationships are complicated, and rarely genuine. To my knowledge, no other being searches for a companion with whom to spend 20, 30, 40, up to 85 years(!). I do believe that love (as opposed to only lust) exists among animals, though the humanly definition of the word has evolved along side us. Humans have adopted the idea of "true love" - a cosmically fated connection, unique and eternal. We spend most of our lives obsessing over the potential of this connection, searching, failing, and searching again. This quest, and our interaction with the conscious body of society, create a number of lies that confuse a person's identity. We cover ourselves with masks, and hope they attract a special someone. We don't realize, however, that even our inner consciousness, the personality inside our head who we recognize as our "self", is also masked. Humans lie to themselves, consciously and subconsciously convincing themselves for comfort and hope. We do this without realizing, everyone does, as a result of existing within a self-conscious society. More often than not these masks make genuine human connection difficult, and perhaps impossible. Still, it's beautiful (albeit frustrating) that we keep trying. If only we could relax the mind.
See Sigmund Freud, Luigi Pirandello and Brett Easton Ellis

Human communication does not communicate, this blog post as evidence. How could I possibly tell you what I feel?
See Reuben Abel

Art is human transcension. "Look what came out of my brain!" Art asks no forgiveness, only reflection. Art explains more than science. Art keeps me alive.

These lessons should have been more mundane. Perhaps I could have told you stories about relationships or other poignant moments of my life. If these lessons were more specific and less cerebral I'm sure you all could relate better. Life didn't raise me that way. Life raised me this way.

Humans are strange. Life is unexpected.

learning is for chumps

2008-12-24T12:20:00.000-08:00

i too was approached to coalesce my 2008 experiences into a tell-all "list" of "what i learned." i've put it off for a while because, honestly, i was a bit frightened of putting this year in review. it was simultaneously fantastic and fucking terrible (though nowhere near as terrible as 2007. fuck 2007). i traveled the world then got a knee-buckling slap in the face by the utter failure that was the past 4 months of my life. 2008 was a pendulum, and if there was one thing i learned, it was anything we learn we can unlearn in an instant. all it takes is a catalyst.

but after reading jeff ze pen's treatise on what makes us human i finally felt ready to spill my own beans, if only in vague response to some of his generalizations that i don't necessarily agree with. mostly about love, because that's what i spend most of my waking (and unwaking, now that i think about it) time concerned with.

i feel that brevity will heighten the impact of most of these "facts" i've collected, so i'll keep them short unless elaboration is necessary for clarity's sake.

- learning to write with your non-dominant hand is one of the most difficult brain puzzles one can engage in.

- cats are just as good as people when you're alone.

- (this one's important) love is not sex and sex is not love.

i need to pause here. it seems obvious, or cliche, or perhaps just stupid and sappily romantic, but i cannot stress how true this is. and in relation to jeffrey's hypothesis on the so-called "genuineness" of human relationships, this can either prove him right or prove him wrong. we are hardly the only monogamous creatures in the animal kingdom, and our dance of destiny looking for "true love" is our evolved version of the mating dance, no longer externalized and silly (or is it?), but now metaphysical, emotional, subtle to the oxymoronic point of aggrandizement. love is now so ethereal that it's the Platonic ideal, non-existant except in literature and our own brainwaves. "no one can tell you you're in love, you just know it. through and through. balls to bones."

but back to the point, the mating rituals of animals (arguably) only fulfill that titular purpose, i.e. mating. what i'm arguing is that we may not be the only monogamous creatures in the animal kingdom, but we are one of the few (bonobos and select porpoises aside) that mate not for the literal sense of mating but for the sake of mating, the pleasure of it. and hence my point. sex is not love. love is not sex. the two are not inextricable, but we often seem to think they have to be. all kidding and philosophizing aside though, when they are inextricable (and they can be), it's pretty heavenly. which leads me to the next point on the list:

- love is real.

and to quote The Verve, love is noise, love is pain, love is these [sic] blues that i'm singing again. end quote. but love is good too, most of the time. this one is sort of up for debate, but this is what i learned this year.

-art: i've learned a lot about creativity and i still have nothing to show for it.

that's the title of my memoirs.

- learning is for chumps.

i suppose i should address my title. after spending a good 5 months abroad, i discovered something (and i coin a phrase from that movie that nearly ruined us all): learning's the problem. experiencing, now that's the solution. if you set out to learn something, odds are you'll be disappointed. sure, it's a matter of semantics, a minor adjustment of one's mind-set, but it makes all the difference in the world. i think we all knew this already, or i at least get that sense sometimes that we put too much emphasis on one thing, when we really should be focusing on this other, similar, but completely separate thing. it's kind of stupid, but i had to travel half-way around the world for it to be true to me.

- the world is in a constant state of flux, from the macro-sense to the micro-sense to the meta-sense.

one last pause for explanation. stasis is impossible. never strive for stasis, for status quo, for sterility. there is no end point, no center of the maze. we all fear this but in truth, the fear is what makes us accept it. without fear there is no change. keep searching, fellow maze-wanderers. we'll all find Nowhere together.

i suppose this could be considered Part One. i don't think i've even really touched on what i actually wanted to say when i finally did sit down and cope with what i experienced in the past 12 months. it's possible that i'll come back for Part Two. then again, i may just move on. hello 2009.

Parcheesi Fever!!!

2008-12-23T00:38:00.000-08:00

Man's soul may well be a worthless cesspool of envy and hate (especially during the Holidays) but I am not here tonight to dally in the heavy in some vain attempt to make meaning out of the meaningless. I'll leave that to the pro's or Henry Miller, whichever you prefer. Rather, like a scared turtle I suck my heads, feet, and tongue-like turtle penis into my shell's cozy confines, laying prostrate at the alter of trivialities.

What is friendship? When a man loves a woman? When a man seeks someone to eat Nachos with? The natural occurrence when one becomes sick to death of heaving a football into the air, watching it die in the horizon, before having to run after it them-self.

I have a lot of friends. I like them. I hope they like me. Our company is mutually enjoyed in a drunken whirl of reveling laugh tracks. I watch Nico try to eat an Apple or predict Nick's actions a week before they come and rejoice in my good fortune of finding these people. So they are good people? Is that it? No. It must be more. It all out has to be.

Well. If friendship has a definition I'd liktatink I stumbled upon it tonight in the form of Parcheesi--the once royal game of India played by kings with servants as pawns, and now a cash cow for the good people at Parker Brothers.

I settled in a margarita, Nick, and his A-OK lady for a game. I am not the strategic sort but managed a blockade early in the game. As I moved my two red pawns together I checked the faces of my counterparts and denoted a certain wariness in his eyes. In this moment, this flicker of shared understanding, we both knew how the game would unfold. Our friendly fireplace game would become...THE WORST GAME OF PARCHEESI EVER PLAYED!

I kept my blockade up for fifteen minutes. The game screeched to a halt and between my Belichekian ruthlessness and Nick's commandeering of Jillian's pieces we managed to stalemate the game for fifteen minutes. When we rolled the die, regardless of outcome, we'd have to say "pass".

It was a beautiful thing. One Nick will forever be upset about.

What I've Learned...

2008-12-15T23:28:00.000-08:00

Like the rest of the world, I am slowly being weened off the influence of Print Media, though it's been a great friend so far. It's offered legitimacy and made every Thursday (Wednesday since moving to California) as "Sports Illustrated Day". Even still, it is twittered to shreds, day by day by nonstop onslaughts of information, rumors, and speculation that cloud the mind with data, rendering ink stained hands nearly a relic. A sterling exception to this rule is Esquire Magazine, specifically Esquire Magazine's "What I've Learned" issue. In this issue--published every December, people from various fields tell their lessons in unadultered, bullet point format. Over the past three years, these issues have given me more than any book, idea, or poet. Reading the abbreviated wisdom of Muhammad Ali does wonders to a man. There isn't a day that passes where I don't think about Muhammad Ali's lesson of "what you are thinking about, you are becoming". I read this passage the day, sat down and finished the first draft of my novel. It rung through my head as I finished the second draft. I will hear it numerous times as I inch nearer and nearer to completion of my ultimate, be all, end all goal of writing a good novel that represents my soul, before moving on to the next ultimate be all end all goal.

Joel Walkowski, 22, is a recent college graduate, comedian, and writer from Detroit, Michigan.

Never pursue a woman unless you can talk to her like you talk to your best friend. Short of that, you'll try too hard and embarrass all parties. If this happens, you can turn it into an essay and friendship but little else. If you find, at a later date, that you're able to talk to her like a great friend: embrace the friendship.

If you want to write, some nights will easy, some nights will be hard. If you go at each night with this singular purpose, you'll notice that the nights you don't care are when you do your best work. In this regards, everything in life can be traced back to Sports. If you go all out, balls deep with effort, you'll over play and undermine your abilities with extra effort. Let the game come to you and you'll control it all.

This doesn't apply if you play Linebacker, Defensive Line, or want to direct a feature film.

Also, it's quite hard to admit when you don't have your "A" Game.

If life gets hard, pretend you're someone else for a little while. The power of pretending to be a Long Island Housewife or Mother of Cactuses has pushed the restart button for me many times.

Four or Maybe Six Hours a week you will be possessed by a singular purpose, a feeling you'll cling to as your reason for being. There are two ways to take this. You can either feel bad because it doesn't take a stronger hold or work to make it a bigger part of your life. There is only one approach that makes life worth living...

Eat good meals daily, even if they have to be fried multiple times. The smile is worth the smile.

Exercise and inspiration make life feel equally good but you can only force one of them. A game of tackle football feels much better than several scotches.

If someone grants you the gift of their conversation, you owe it to them to give everything in return.

Armed with a proper frame of reference, all life's lessons can be gleaned from a single NBA Playoff game.

As far as I know the best feelings in the world are: 1) Being surrounded by a universe formed in friendship 2) Completing a large scale project 3) Seeing your team win a championship 4) Being in love. These are in no particular order, no should they be.

Money doesn't matter. Spend it. Even if you don't have it. If you're worrying about it they've got you.

If I can't have a decent conversation with someone they earn my immediate distrust and scorn. I believe the same beliefs are hoisted upon me. That's how it goes. Sometimes you meet, often times you judge, but don't forget that you're getting the same treatment from them.

If a group of people give the gift of their attention, you better do something damned good with it. Think of the time spent awash in your presence. You'd be hurting the world if you didn't go all out to inform, enlighten, or entertain. I think of this every time I have a group conversation. Some hate me for my aggrandizing ways but those who understand, those who love me, appreciate these efforts. Because of this I know we'll be friends forever.

Find a good friend. Find another good friend. Keep finding. Try your best to build everyone up and they'll return the favor. Keep it up and before you know it: voila! You're surrounded by a framework of caring, like-minded people. That's what it's all about isn't it.

Sometimes you need to act crazy to feel sane. If I've ever picked you up at a party, sprinted 100 yards with ya'll over my shoulder before collapsing in an asthmatic heap, this is the reason.

Back when I was 17, I took on a large goal I had no business achieving. By some cosmic fluke I achieved it. Since then, I haven't felt at home unless I was combatting every element on the way to some place greater. In short, certain moments define you. Don't ignore these moments. They pave the way.

Good friends hate you sometimes. Great friends love you even though they hate you. If you're a good friend, you'll listen and shape the fuck up. If you're a great friend, you'll let them set your hair on fire because you need the ass kicking.

Never let a woman ruin a friendship. You can't control a woman but you can control acting like a stubborn douche.

Several works will strike you as pure genius as young man or woman. You'll grow up, holding these close to your heart, but don't forget to revisit. Going back allows you to understand why you thought they were genius to begin with.

If you can't get a song out of your head, listen to it over and over again until it becomes part of your soul.

Chinese History and Hydrologic Cycles are important as you make them.

Any meal made by Mom is the best one I've ever had.

You never have enough socks.

Late night suits me. it ruins my days, casting me as a zombie, but these lonesome hours provide access to a part of me that would otherwise lay dormant and aloof. No wonder I turn to these hours to do what I do. Days are reserved for vice, sports, and hobbies. Nighttime is when serious soul searching comes.

On a final lesson, perhaps this formal outlet isn't the best way for me to illustrate What I've Learned. Maybe a convo will suffice.

An excerpt from tonight:

me: what's going? Thanks for watching Goals btw. Do people think I won't be returning?

Bryan: who said you wont be?

me: thats just the feeling I'm picking up. everyone's been saying "goodbye"

Bryan: everyones saying goodbye to everyone plus youve made it clear you wont be back for like 2 months

me: yeah

Bryan: a month and a half

me: I hope so. it's just been kinda cryptic and surreal

Bryan: and early in the semester you were all about letting the wind taking you where it may be and acting like you never wanted to step on los angeles soil again. i mean you told me repeatedly you had no intention of returning. im sure you told other people the same. so while i feel you will be back and dont really doubt that i think that might be fueling most peoples fatalistic goodbyes

me: yeah, it's fueled by my own uncertainty

Bryan: id think that the people who know you best believe you will be returning probably although you gotta get over the uncertainty its part of the bargain you know the people who know exactly what they want to do to the t are boring so uncertainty is something we deal with

me: yeah

Bryan: and shouldnt be feared

me: I've just caught the bug for fiction writing and figure I'd be selling myself short if I didn't do it until I get good but that's a lame reason for anything

Bryan: also one that means youll be writing forever (which i fully endorse)

me: I sort of need to. nothing settles me like this shit

Bryan: as the day you feel you're good at something you should stop i mean we can produce good but when we think were good were satisfied and fuck that

me: and while this novel ain't great it sure is telling of some future good

Bryan: one must hope certainty is sort of a mythical concept

me: and future good is the only reason to keep running

Bryan: (id say youre on the right path though)

me: thanks. I'm trying. More than anyone but intimates realize.

Bryan: i think people get fooled by your flippancy

me: yeah. for sure

Bryan: you make so many things seem inconsequential. stop that shit. you obviously care.

me: everyone thinks I'm some dumb ass Crispin Glover weirdo. I know I do. but that's my natural reaction

Bryan: i do not think of you as crispin glover

me: I've been a self promoter and never want to be one of those film school grandstanders again

Bryan: you're more mickey rourke

me: that's good I guess

Bryan: yeah (p.s. letting people know you care is not self promotion)

me: but I'm not gonna waste my efforts to do such a thing. It sort of comes out that I act like an ass sometimes. Though I really enjoyed spinning fancy talk last night

Bryan: well. thats not exactly what i mean, what i mean is this: nick, me, your mom we know this means a lot to you because you tell us. you dont just make pronouncements of want to be a great writer. you tell us that you like to write. that its important to you and that sometimes its hard but to others

me: I'm really proud that I come off that way. Really proud.

Bryan: youre like "that shit. that don't mean much. i do it when i'm not sleeping. and usually drunk! but i'm good at it and im going to keep doing it because im good at it" now while i dont think you need to open yourself up to everyone, it probably wouldnt hurt to act like this is the most effortless thing ever

me: yeah. for sure

Bryan: you would not be as good as you are if you didnt care

me: I care so much, so fucking much, and you know that. It's on my mind every second of every day and if I opened myself past the point of aloofness, people would figure me out as just another over ambitious hack and while that's good, I'd like to have a sort of playful carefree fireball standing with those that don't know me well...though I can't disregard how many times I've had the same conversation you're starting with myself. You're a really great friend, Bryan

Bryan: i think you get too caught up in the fireball part. thank you. i consider you a good one myself... i guess what im saying, which i promise is not a criticism, but an attempt to explain the perception that people feel they'll never see you again

me: yeah. I know what I want to do, which is write, but don't really know how to go about it...but that's what the rest of this shit life is for

Bryan: yeah. so stop being afraid of not knowing exactly what you want to do. its par for the course. i dont know what i want to do but i do know i want to write so im heading off on the journalism course. i like this shit but i dont think its who i am. itll be part of who i am but it will not be the only thing ill ever do

me: Like Baron Davis' Grandma said "Take that ball away and who are you?"

Bryan: yeah my concern is that i get to write and you know what a lot of my favorite writers did reportage or criticism. they wrote. because thats what bonds us. we love to write. we need to write. the final outlet will vary. apparently im into verbosity tonight. simply put: i want to write. don't know what yet. but i have some ideas so im starting to check them off the list until i find the one i want

me: Do it I have so many more novel ideas now I think I'll put off getting a real job til this one is as good as it can be. though it'll never be perfect, it's me.

Bryan: thats important. alright playa. i gots work int he morning and a 1500 word essay on myself to write so im going to catch some sleep, wake up early and try to write a draft. catch you soon. on a final note, i expect to see you come february but i wont lie id be bummed if you dont come back im not intending on that happening though. night killa...what i know will be up as soon as i finish this essay

me: AWESOME. I'm doing mine now

Bryan: awesome

me: I'll be back for you, Nick, Jeff, Brock, Nico, Mc, & the rest of 'em. the cousins and brothers I never had

Bryan: were a pretty special lot. lets take advantage of that and show we are to the world. come back for the club meetings

me: such is the "New" Newhindenburg

Your Biological Clock

2008-12-14T23:22:00.000-08:00

Sundays are a big stupid mountain covered in hair. They are a room temperature Big Mac you eat when too drunk to do anything else. Sundays are that bit hair you forget to shave but friends always notice, the smell of burnt hair at a baby shower, the screech of flatulence during religious ceremonies. You took Sunday to see Booker T and the MG's and Sunday heckled, not Booker T lead singer, but Booker T Civil Rights Activist. They come over, already buzzed, and drink your last beer. They're the abscesses forming on your rear. They give noogies, punt the ball during games of catch, and know far too much about sabermetrics and not enough about team chemistry. Sunday's forget to DVR your favorite television shows and get all pissed off when you get all pissed off. "WELL YOU WATCH TOO MUCH TV ANYWAY" Sunday says before kicking you off to watch reruns of M*A*S*H, you'll peek in the window as you fly your kite and Sunday won't be laughing. That serious sabbath doesn't enjoy anything.

I have two fingers, at all times, located on my emotional pulse. 1/7 of the week, my pulse turns cold and aloof--I wonder if my heart could be having a stroke or worse yet--if it could have packed it's bags and jumped from my chest--exploring the world for a more qualified/more blue-eyed/man/manboy/Buck Angel.

On Sunday's the sun shines but its always raining. Today my hair caught on fire, singing my scalp, making it all but impossible to wear festive winter hats. It came as no surprise, It was Sunday. Feelin' kind of Sunday? I should've known from the axe in your hand.

Days I Would Rather Have Instead of A Day Of Rest

Caveman Day- You go about your day in normal fashion but grunt instead of talk and throw rocks at shiny things. They confuse you.
Screaming Day- Everyone goes onto their sidewalk and yells at each other for two hours straight. After that, with stress dissipated, we'll have pancake breakfast and get to know each other...finally.
Sit in A Refrigerator Box Filled With Icy Hot Day- This one's sort of self-explanatory.
Finger Painting Day- Ditto.
Refluxive Compository Intestinal Malignance Awareness Day- Ditto Again. This shit's explaining itself.
Put A Finger Somewhere You've Never Put A Finger Before- A day where we all try our best not to make obvious jokes.

Anything would be better than this line of Sunday's, devoid of jaunty piano music and riddled with the incumbent's weeks pressures.

"It's December 14th! I HAVE TO GET ON A PLANE IN 3 DAYS!"

Maybe this day is cursed for a Non-Christian. Then again, maybe it'd be different if your football team could win a fucking game. Nah... This day plain blows.

needles

2008-12-14T04:31:00.000-08:00

as i drink a scotch and eat a bowl of cheerios i figure i should introduce myself. but i already have, i suppose, as i've already contributed to this space without acknowledging that it just might confuse the hell out of everybody. so i skipped a step. sue me.

i don't necessarily know what i'm going to be when i grow up (if i haven't grown up already), but i have some options. those options include longshoreman, "writer," unemployed, and most recently, dj. the needles i refer to aren't the bad kind, the kind that give everybody either the willies or the DTs, but the kind that bring sweet sweet music to your ears.

i had a revelation yesterday: vinyl ain't that great. sure it's a portal to another time, where music wasn't as easy to get as a quick keystroke and a few minutes of patience as your newest obsession downloads, where you can get an album a full six weeks before the artist (or more likely, the label) intended you to. back when hours were spend flipping through bins in a musty record (record. vinyl's the reason that word has meaning) store, praying you get lucky and finally find that 12" that's been eluding you for a good month, but just has to show up sometime. that was a great time, one that i wasn't even alive for, but i can still appreciate. but the real question: does it sound better?

everyone's answer is yes. i always said yes. until i was asked if anyone i knew had a cassette deck. we all have cassettes collecting dust from the early 90s, when we bought MC Hammer, the Space Jam soundtrack, and every edition of Jock Jams we could get our hands on, and played those cassettes until they wore right through and we had to get another one. but where are they now? not being played, that's for sure. but if the history of vinyl says anything about music, it's that the medium is influenced both in the artistic sense and the physical sense. there's a certain impersonality to clicking a wheel on an ipod and playing that b-side it took you 12 seconds to find on a blog somewhere, compared to the relative "warmness" of slipping a record out of its sleeve, blowing off the dust and setting the needle just so, the familiar crackle of the blank space before the album kicks in reassuring you that you've at least done something right. there's just no challenge. and maybe that's what we're clinging to. there's still, even now, perhaps even intensified in the instant gratification age, a sense of the hipster one-upmanship of finding that track, bootleg, remix that nobody else has (yet). but imagine a time when search engines didn't exist, where album leaks were actually a big deal, not just expected collateral damage.

so what is it i'm trying to say? vinyl gets a wrap it doesn't necessarily deserve. it sounds good, sure, with the right speakers, but so does anything else. the vinyl effect can even be recreated in a studio these days. basically, who's to say that in 30 years the future-hipsters won't be collecting cassettes, making literal "mix-tapes" in an effort to be retro, cool, hip, ironically "cutting-edge." "man, music just doesn't sound like it used to," the kids'll say, "cassettes just sound better than having it beamed into your head" (which is what my limited imagination tells me is how music will be received in the future). but then everything changed for me.

james murphy, of lcd soundsystem extraordinaire, still spins the vinyl every now and then, and i had the privilege of standing 30 inches away from him as he did tonight. watching the man work, the pure physicality involved, sans computers, sequencers, or anything that might make it slightly less "real," made me appreciate the format of vinyl in a way i hadn't before. it wasn't the sound (which was pounding, in a good way), it was the performance. but as mr. murphy himself has said, purposefully oxymoronic, "i hear you're buying a synthesizer, and an arpeggiator, and throwing your computer out the window, because you want to make something 'real'. you wanna make a Yaz record." the quotes around 'real' are mine, but i imagine that's what he intended. sure, spinning is still technology, but it ain't the easy kind of technology. and that somehow makes it all better.

vinyl's not bad. it's really great actually. but the hype it gets just might come from that hipster ethos, the thought that if i like something that everybody else sorta hates, or at least writes off or has forgotten about, and i stick to my guns, i just might appear ironically avant-garde. and avant-garde is cool, especially when it's ironic. all i know is i danced till my legs wanted to die tonight. it probably wasn't the vinyl that made me do it, more like the disco grooves that are currently making my ears ring as i finish up my scotch and get ready to pass out. but i had a great fucking time nonetheless.

so that's me. nice to meet ya. (again)

--mc-danced-out.

Insomnia and the Woman Lying Next to Me

2008-12-12T01:11:00.000-08:00

Once again, I am gripped by an irrational fear. A dread of falling asleep for fear that tomorrow will be just like today. A bad day. Lying awake in the dark, I look at her sleeping, docile, vulnerable. Her own irrational fears have a much different effect on her. This morning, she told me of the conversations in her head, imaginary exchanges where she plays both sides of the board, as a chess game. Endlessly she goes back and forth between two personae, extrapolating all possible event chains in a hypothetical to the point where she's telling the imaginary person about the conversations she has in her head with an imaginary person, and in the end she's only talking to herself. But at least she can sleep.

These unwaking hours are the darkest part of the woods of the mind--the easiest place to get lost in thought, paralyzed by the fear of going any further, but similarly crippled by the fear of staying in one place for too long. And thus we go in circles. I think I'm thinking to myself, but someone must be listening, right? I take comfort in the possibility that my thoughts translate into her dreams, giving her the peace of mind in sleep that I myself seek in consciousness. She breathes softly, short little breaths that can be described as either feminine or feline. Even the curve of her body, the way her hands are balled up in front of her gentle face, suggest a cat-like influence. I wonder if that means men are like dogs, splayed out with little regard for the space they occupy, begging for a touch, a glance, a thought. A soft purr from deep within her only confirms my suspicions. Petting her doesn't seem like such a bad idea, but I refrain. A social faux-pas perhaps, petting those who don't know they're an object that begs to petted.

From dogs and cats I wander to the next tree in the forest and I worry: Are we really that different? Dogs and cats? Men and women as two different species, a concept that frightens me to the point of shivers, that the deepest desire can never be truly fulfilled. If we are so inherently different, is it possible to share a soul? The ceiling's glaring indifference seems the appropriate response, the blue glow of the the alarm clock digits casting tiny shadows that reveal the texture of the space, defining the little bumps so sharply I can only conclude that separation is inevitable. No two things can become one. But a soft brush of her hand as she stirs in her sleep reassures me that I'm mistaken. I sigh.

It's useless to fight it, insomnia. One can only hope for the end. Eventually the circles of thought will become so wide (or so tight?) that one cannot help but abandon all hope, and in that resignation to one's prison, one is set free. The last test of the boastful man. Insomnia takes you down a peg. You are nothing without me, says the body to the mind, and the mind responds in kind.

The irrational fear is rooted in a broader tendency to overthink. The big picture is a scary thing to stare at, and I take this fact to heart as the wind howls and makes the room rattle. It's a good night to sleep. But the big picture only enables my avoidance. Am I a big picture person or am I just refusing to acknowledge the pit in my stomach, the lump in my throat, the sense of dread I feel every morning when she gently wakes me for a cup of coffee before my morning commute? Again, cyclically, I return to her. If only I could sleep as she does--mouth agape but breathing through the nose, eyelids flickering with the projections of dreams, withdrawn into a curtained room separated from the light by only a thin but resilient sheath. I consider the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand but I know how much she hates it when I smoke in bed. She's never said anything but, instinctively, I can feel her tension when the blankets bear that stale sour smell, and this small, involuntary bit of fact curbs my enthusiasm for tobacco. I do it for her. Isn't it funny how much of our own happiness revolves around other people's?

I forget sometimes. Nights like these are necessary. When she lies next to me in the darkness, whether facing away from me--the little spoon--or towards me--her small fists close to her chin, waiting for me to place my face close to hers so she can reposition her hands in the usual nooks of my torso like so many bony puzzle pieces--and I close my eyes, I no longer see the dim outline of her profile. As soon as my lids touch the room is set afire, and she is the sole source of light--in the same position as when my eyes are open but radiant and beautiful, resplendent in a way that sunlight could never recreate. I feel her move and the flaming angel in my third eye moves with her. It happens only on nights like these; these windy, cold, sleepless nights; this permeation past my only line of defense from things I see or don't see. She shines like the moon in my imagination, ever present, even in the supine, naked moment between wakefulness and sleep, if sleep ever comes. This tiniest moment in the day is when she is brightest, whether facing away from me, legs bent slightly at the knees, creating a space for me--the big spoon--to fit, or towards me, eyes closed but anticipating my head on the pillow next to hers, face to face, in case in the course of the night one of us should stir and wake the other, that we might share a brief meeting of the lips. It is no wonder then that I never sleep facing away from her. The shining light in my third eye could never keep me from sleeping.

I kiss her forehead, and she stirs. She turns as I lie next to her. A moment passes and I feel a reciprocatory kiss, and I smile.

98774 Words or "Mama I'm A Man Now"

2008-12-11T23:50:00.000-08:00

At the summit of my education I return to kindergarten, wistfully recounting suspensions past, and grabbing the simplest of lessons: It's good to share.

Over the course of young Hindenburg's run this blog has undergone many facelifts. Starting under the thesis of examining the amazing it has slowly turned into my personal journal for psychoanalysis. This isn't a bad thing. However, times change and ol' Hindy's got to get with them. The sharing has begun with Jeff (who's putting me to shame) and hopefully continue. Who knows? We might even find Archibald! Last I heard, he's been weaseling Isla Fisher away from Sascha Baron-Cohen. You minx you! No offense Minx.

Let's Evolve.

*****

If I get manage my shit together, but two finals remain in my illustrious University Career. As I look back, there are no regrets, all in all I think I've achieved the entire gamut of collegiate life. Henry Ford Community College helped me in this a great deal. Driving into an overpacked parking lot, running to class as slush filled my sockless shoes to attend lecture taught by a bald transsexual man does great things to a boy.

My first class was an an Intro to Sociology taught by a man with the email "socioking@_____.com". He stammered through lecture, struggling to keep his bi-focals fixed on his face, while ignoring the dwindling numbers in his class. We started as a group of 26 and ended as 6, me and 5 Islamic Women. They were always the best students. My first assignment was a project on how changing times were reflecting in logos. I toiled for days to perfect my perfect analysis of the NBC Peacock. Armed with a 20 page Kinko's fresh document, I proudly flipped through my efforts. Then a classmate nudged me. "Hey man, I gotta go. Will you turn in my assignment for me?"

"Sure."

He handed me his assignment--a half page of loose leaf paper describing the Detroit Pistons 2004 championship victory that spelled "Chauncey Billups" as "Billips". It's shameful to think of me on a high horse at such a pitiful juncture, but I was. I vowed never to be the sort of student he was.

Four years later, I routinely skip class to nap in the park or lay eggs for Nick's movies. I think of this boy often, wondering where he is, pouring out sips of 40 in tribute to his lackadaisical nature. Doing a poor job is fine if the job warrants it. How foolish was I to toil on nothingness. Take care of yourself, give in to the world, but be careful where you plant those seeds. Tempted by other gardens and their seemingly fruitful soils, unfitting actions boast a great temptation.

"Ooooh being a biologist would be fun! There are ANIMALS INVOLVED"

If anything, I've managed not to be an idiot about where I laid my loyalties like so many of Fenkel's eggs. A few months ago, living with Matt & Ross under newly wed bliss, I sat on Nico's roof for hours wondering a life dedicated to love would be?

I don't know what that is but I know it's possible. Working on a singular task for an extended period of time, certain patterns become palpable. What makes you happy? What hours and habits are most conducive to success? What allows the freedom of mind and flitty fervor of spirit enabling long smiling walks in the California sun? I DON'T KNOW THESE ANSWERS, but realizing that such questions exist is a very important step.

Aside from girls, life is too serious to fret over. Life is its own babysitter.

These are the thoughts of a man who rarely leaves the house except to eat Mexican food.

Recently, I rattled myself in an imbroglio over some holes in some walls. I use the plurals because this was the night I pretended to be Troy Polamalu, the tasmanian devil and father of Paisos himself. All was my tackling dummy, all was joyful.

This mindset wasn't shared by others. Realizing I was wrong in the aloof approach to fixing my problem, I begged forgiveness, promising to fix the holes in the walls. This was a high priority for me, even garnering a number 1 spot on my "to-do" list from November 15th. Everyday it weighed on me. I'd walk to the hardware store, pick up the dry wall, and hear a quiet voice whispering "Not yet. The world likes you. It could help you."

The world, again, came through. George, a handyman I fostered a great relationship with in previous rentals, saw the holes on a routine inspection and offered to fix them. He did. On the way home from my beloved's home, toting a mattress on my back like some deranged production of the stations of the cross, I crossed George.

Though my neck stiffened I couldn't put down the mattress because I promised myself I wouldn't.

I said hello to George and thanked him for fixing the holes. He smiled and said "Makes sense it was you. Made me laugh."

I don't know where I'm going with this. I'm procrastinating as I write this and I'm sure Brock will scoff. Offering my irresponsibility as a life lesson is faulty logic, especially from a grad.

Life's always looming, towering above, making us feel like scared scattered mice. Alone and cheese chasing. I guess I'm at the ultimate juncture for that. The world beckons, I'm conditioned to answer the question of "What's Next?", but more than anything it's important not to worry. To let go and let the world take care of me.

Smile. Chase your dreams. Do your best to love. Try your damnedest to understand.

If I do these I'll be just fine. Homeless, but dandy underneath it all.

****

Finishing up early Wednesday morning, I expected a cathartic explosion and champagne baths to follow. This didn't happen. In the wake of something I'd always thought impossible, I didn't feel like an achiever, I felt like a human. I did what I felt like and nothing more. Feeling quiet and quite calm, I laid my eyes to the ceiling and explored the feeling of complete understanding.

****

No more jock jams!

A New, Softer Mindset

2008-12-10T23:35:00.000-08:00

Barack Obama! That's right, we're about to have our first black president! What better time to consider new ideas? Different perspectives your mind wouldn't previously allow? A new way of life! What better time to say "out with the old, and in with the new!"??? So, world...

IT'S TIME THE PILLOW BECAME THE #1 INVENTION.

Honestly, the wheel has enjoyed a pretty respectable incumbency. No disrespect! Afterall - who could doubt the wheel? As far as inventions go, you'd be a fool to argue against it...

The Earth as we know it would not exist. Our executives wouldn't talk to each other from towers billowing hundreds of feet above the Earth's surface, casting shadows over cities breathing hard. Those men and their cell phones wouldn't speak via signals, to a satelite, floating even higher out, blending in with the stars in the sky, which, then, couldn't gaze back at us from time to time, showing us a reflection of ourselves from God's point-of-view.

Life would be simpler. Life might be comfortable.

Since there's no erasing an invention, it'd be useless to go on about a world without the wheel. Instead, let's all agree on the easier task of naming a new favorite. The pillow. Everyone loves 'em, why not? Besides, the potential benefits of such a paradigm shift are enough to reclaim souls. Think about it...

How much time do you spend with your pillow? Do ever sleep on a wheel? How many wheels have been covered in layers of your drool (or other bodily substances, but that's my next point...)?! There's no doubt that we'd all be much grumpier people without such overlooked comforts. Sure, we've probably always found a way to be comfortable, from the beginning of "human", maybe before, but the pillow means more than comfort. Cheers to the first man that decided to package soft.

Of the times you've been lucky to have sex in a comfortable place, how often were pillows responsible? Babies. Think about it.

But besides the obvious reasons, doesn't it say something: to place an object that cradles our minds delicately above another which has evolved, with too many examples, into our most unforgiveable creations? Yes, it shouldn't be ignored that without the wheel the production of pillows would plummit (phenomenally)! That's boring, and beside the point. Let's all appreciate the idea of a comfortable mind. For once, let's revere principal over practicality. Dreams over productivity.

My last and most poignant argument: a website of the ten funniest pillows. A google search for funny wheels yields disappointing results.

Ultimately, it's painfully true that this blog wouldn't exist without things that roll. You'd have to come over if we wanted to catch up.

I hope you'll consider my ideas. It'd really be a shame to go on in such anxious complacency - they say we're heading into a new era!

Sleep well,

Jeff the Pen

Here and Nowhere: An Introduction

2008-12-09T21:45:00.000-08:00

To Whom It May Concern:

I am a figment of your imagination. I don’t actually exist (yet) and that is my business here, at The New Hindenburg. I mean not to exist. At least not for some time.

Instead, I’d prefer you think of me as a kind of dark matter. You know, that stuff out in space that we have no means of detecting, but that we suppose exists. We suppose it exists because we’ve the fanciest of technologies, whose brains are far superior and inferior to ours all at the same time, and we trust these god-like machines to make our suppositions for us. With a bit of reason and a dash of silicon, the invisible, unreachable, most logic defying ideas change history. Though we have no evidence of actual dark matter, its supposed existence is simply enough.

But you shouldn’t think I have low self-esteem – you’d be missing the point. Sure, most people like to exist. Some people might even give you a sock to the face for you telling them how little they exist. It’s obviously a matter of opinion. Personally, I would return that sock to the face for being forced to claim outright ownership of my space and time. Standing in front of you, you might think you see me, but you do not. I am made of innumerable illusions caused by our grand universe, and by cute little synapses firing off inside your brain. Neither of these tell the truth, which barely exists in itself. No, I’m confident and content in my non-existence. In fact, I'm proud of it. Existence is stability, among too many other nouns to list here. Without existence we’d have no identity. This is the point.

Your suppositions are enough for the time being. Though you will feel my presence, you will never know me. There is beauty, not indifference, in this disconnection.

So begins my journey at the New Hindenburg. I beg you bear with me in my non-existences.
Thanks to Joel for encouraging me to take part in the ongoing discoveries of this blog.

Jeff the Pen

Bobbin & Me

2008-12-08T04:03:00.000-08:00

First off, some notes.

1) Welcome Jeff LaPenna to the blog. If you are one of our Malaysian readers, I'm sure you will find him to your liking. Jeff is perfect for Asia.

2) I am about to graduate from College, a top 25 University no less, this is an extraordinary achievement and one that could have easily died due to my high school follies. However, I attacked CC with the ardent gusto of a man possessed, passing this gift off to my my best friends. As such, I can walk out my bedroom and see my two best friends from high school. Still together after all these years. As it stands I don;t know if I'll ever be able to grow uop. The prospect of not sharing a room with Nick terrifies me. However, I can't think of a grander achievement.

3) I am about to finish the novel. Since I was able to read adult books, I considered the prospect of writing a book the greatest of all achievements. I'm about to get there. It might be good, it might not be, but FUCK IT ALL I'VE WRITTEN A NOVEL. The letters stemming from this process are the reward rather than the work. If you don't know and bother to read this, you soon will...

Of the past year...

It's been amazing, life affirming. Finally, I realize that the life I want to live is attainable. Of course, this is not embarked upon alone. I am aided by the presence and all consuming love of all my friends.

To Nick, Jeff, Bryan, Brock, Nico, Hoopster, Mucci, Dan, Appu, Jamster, Heidi, Mac-Rally, Matt, Ross, the Pauls, and all others: You've made me feel like a superstar. Embraced me at my highest heights, lifted me from my lowest lows. A plethora of gifts have been bestowed upon this past year but every one of them stems from gifts abided by your friendship. As I go forth, foraying into manhood, I know that, ultimately, ya'll are behind every triumph. I'm honored simply to know all of you and can;t wait to express my feelings in a more succinct form.

The past year might have been the best day of my life and I can only sum it up in the following format.

Joshua Tree:

Life is better, more vibrant, and more fulfilling than I ever thought possible,

Embarking with Jeff, Matt, Brock, and a stranger, I discover my maternal instinct as I mother a Cactus. I fall in love with feeling so free. On the way home, Matt lets me hear my anthem. Hearing this I come to a conclusion: I am meant to write and write I shall. I become aware of something called the Great Narrative, alongside the Beautiful Little Life and the General malaise, this becomes a defining concept of my life. I look for it everywhere.

Also:

Matt is a painting.

Things are melty.

Jeff is a saint.

Brock is a gypsy.

Heidi is a witch.

Nick doesn't know how to respond to certain things.

Jeff shows me the Tenori-On.

310 After Party

Dressed in a suit and hat you guys denote me the Mayor. I feel like the mayor, decrying legislation left and right to eager denizens. Anyone can be anything. I watch the world unfold with new aplomb. Everything is so striking and new. You honor me. I feel your love. I want to be friends forever, even if some people scare me.

Also:

There is a very dramatic fart.

I discover inspiration in the form of fluting.

We meet Orig. He loves to play Jigglyball because all Origs love playing Jigglyball.

Playground

Climbing rocks is fun. Some sights are so good the sheer memory will make every thing that follows feel good. I am not the man that Nico is. He is a warrior. I am not. I am discontent and always looking for a challenge. I walk the barren Santa Barbara streets looking for something and find a story. I write that story over the next two days. It is a very good story.

Also:

Giving Ross a sandwich is very important.

The Unitard is bliss.

Ruined hats can be funny.

The world and space are one.

These guys are legit.

Sundance:

I watch amazing exhibits of art, science, and film mixed into one. I am wowed as wood takes on a cinematic form. This astounds me. There are pants made of movies, though I don't know how to understand. A visual artist relates cults to Britney though I don't entirely understand.

I walk. Walk walk walk walk walk through the cold, sleet, and snow. A fire place awaits, rewarding us for our trials. I reward the fireplace with rhythmic dancing before coming to the conclusion that I am a dumb greedy child and that's ok.

Also...

To BE CONTINUED!!!!!!!!!

Behold The Pelican

2008-11-30T20:58:00.000-08:00

To my brothers in East Lansing, young G-Men loving Jewish home boys, and the man himself... This one goes out to Plaxico Burress. How rare is the gesture that inspires sympathy, disgust, and gratitude. News is still leaking out but initial reports are that you shot yourself in an injured right leg, already a spot of injury. If you cite "medicinal purposes" as the reason for your gun shot I promise to fly to New York City and award you the Gold Medal of Comedy. Don't write off my offer, Eugene Levy will be presiding over the ceremonies. If the stars align, bringing me for a week long stay to East Lansing, I have half a mind to produce a sitcom centered around the zany antics of Plaxico Burress and Charles Rogers. Michigan State Wide Receivers: formed in tragic mold and deserving of a Tennessee Williams two act. Would they be willing to settle for a buddy comedy? I promise a motorcycle with a sidecar.

Consider the Pelican.

Man's domain is the Earth. We traverse the sky, explore the sea, but such endeavors are done with the feebleness of a toddler wearing training wheels far too long. In wind or water, we foray forth in little manifestations of land. A boat and a plane do not capture the essence of these environs, they merely preserve land so it might be brought to such places. There are three phases to the Earth. With all human ingenuity, we will never master anything outside of our own domain. We don't belong in these places and our presence, unnatural and forced, shoddily imitates the birds and fish, mocking the planet.

Thinking about things like this makes me think that humans are really very silly.

I came to think of this yesterday morning when Andrew McNally and I were living a poem or maybe a short story about the Young and Hungry Portuguese.

Two young men ride bicycles through a darkened city, peddling peddling forever peddling as civilization slowly wanes and land begins to sink; slowly giving way to the Ocean. They take off their shirts, wade into the waves, and find a baseball in the tide. The play catch as fog forms all around them.

I collapsed upon the beach, turning my eyes towards the glittery horizon. In the distance, I saw a black dot dizzily flitting about above me. Thinking this was some sort of strange visual phenomenon, I was intrigued following the black dot as it got closer and came into full form, revealing itself to be a Pelican. The Pelican came to rest upon the waves for a moment before sashaying forth in a sudden burst of natural I'm hungry instincts. It shot into the sky, swooped down and scooped a helpless fish in its malformed mouth, inextricably shaped for exactly such a purpose. The Pelican arced above me, coming to rest behind me on the shore, feasting on the fruits of versatility. At precisely this moment, a plane took off from the nearby LAX Airport, utilizing hundreds of years of ingenuity, sixty million dollars, and jet thrusters to soar far over the Pelican and into the far off Pacific.

Maybe it was headed to China. Maybe to the Philippines. I usually love looking up and wondering where a plane was headed but I didn't now. Being human suddenly seemed like such a let down.

I could easily delve into semantics and scientific subsets, but for generality's sake there are three phases to the planet. The ground, the water, and the sky. Many creatures possess the ability to interact with all three but few (if any) marry the world together like the Sea Bird. Their abilities leave them ill-suited for any particular place, but the coalescence of all three elements allows their true nature, and thus beauty to display itself. As man, all endeavors are limited to terrestrial dealings.

Sitting in the sand in a suddenly finite universe, painfully aware of my own small stature, my thoughts turned to Jennifer Lopez. J-lo or "Jenny for the Block" is probably one of the most powerful women on the planet with universes of Bronx cheering chicanas turning on her fingertips. (Note: This is meant as literal as there are certainly some people who find J-Lo's nails very important). For all of J-Lo's merits and influence, she will never master the Planet like Pelican.

The idea of a Super Hero is a profoundly fetishized cultural phenomenon that I've never quite understood to be frank. University discussions, y'know the kind where you wear track jackets and listening to Damien Rice, leave me ill-suited to argue this claim to hordes of Fanboys and I have no real reason, either. Plainly: the appeal doesn't resonate with me, but the reasons behind my disdain became clear yesterday. Back in May, I stuffed a bunch of Taco Bell down my pants and went to see a movie entitled Iron Man. The nebulous affair regarded the exploits of a raging alcoholic and playboy without explaining the dangers of STD's and unwanted pregnancies lurking behind such irresponsibility. At the very least I would have expected some lesions flecking his forehead. Aside from his ardent vice, Iron Man is made special, thus super, as the pimpled vernacular would have it from a metallic suit allowing him to swoop through the air like a hummingbird and smash through walls like a two-story tall brahma bull with opposable thumbs that also shoot out missiles. Despite the vitriol dripping from my fingers in the tongue in cheek cavalcade, I enjoyed the film a great deal. Watching a Super Hero, especially one played to the apex of impish charm by Robert Downey Jr., perform amazing feats tantalizes and torments the imagination as it stretches the capped confines of human potential.

If something like Iron Man were to occur in reality, it would unquestionably stand as the most amazing event in human history. Even the most ardent of Christians would weep at the altar wondering why Jesus never shot rockets at Pontius Pilot. If we are going to play hypotheticals, let us grant the Pelican powers of abstract thought and a full understanding of human kinesiology and physics. As the world heaped praise on the new Iron Man, the Pelican would scoff in haste. Soured by the human experience, the Pelican would surmisably head to a local watering hole for Whiskey Tonics (the favorite adult beverage of all sea faring birds). After two or three drinks, depending on how much the Pelican ate that day, he would turn to the bar room television that would either be showing news of the real life Iron Man or speculation on where LeBron James will sign in 2010.

The Pelican gives a loud scoff, aided by its mouths amazing acoustics, the call would rattle around the bar, drawing the ire of the bartender. The barkeep, a sage old Irish soul, would turn to the Pelican.

"What you aren't impressed?"

"Hell no. He's just wearing a suit."

"Mighty fine suit though. Let's see you invent something like that."

"Let's see him and his amazing suit go in the water."

"They can't do that. He'd be electrocuted."

"Exactly."

The Pelican would walk out without paying his tab. I couldn't blame him.

The Survey Says...

2008-11-25T21:37:00.000-08:00

Dearest Friends (And Family For I've Decided To Include My Parents And Sister In On This E-Mail),

There are two reasons I am writing this e-mail:

A) My good mutant muchacho Brock has recently instituted a policy where our friend group aligns for a showcase each month. It is good to share, especially with these wonderful genius people.

B) I have been reading a lot of economic mumbo jumbo as pertaining to sociological manners. This can be found in the form of Malcolm Gladwell's The Outliers which would have been a wonderful book if he didn't realize it was going to be so good.

As such I am writing you with the humble request to fill out a survey of key questions. I asked what I felt was necessary to ask and nothing but my slipstream consciousness is evident on the page. The questions are far from easy but I hope each of you answers it as honestly and accurately as you can. I will do the same, sharing my results on Newhindenburg.blogspot.com within the next few hours.

My goal in this is simple.... Having being wowed by sets of figures and survey results I have taken it upon myself to garner a wealth of raw information. I don't have any interest in mathematics or architecture so I figured I would garner information, an essence if you will, of those closest to me. My hypothesis: A story lies within everyone. My goal: to find the story that's going on.

If you have the good faith and free time I would very much like to use your efforts in hopes of someday deciphering a concept, near and dear to my chest that I refer to as "The Great Narrative".

-Joel Walkowski, esquire magazine subscriber

My results:

The Winter 2008 Self Assessment and Research Survey

Basics

Name: Joel Cullen Walkowski

Age: 22

Gender: Male

Height: 6’3 though my Driver’s License Says 6’4
Weight: 215

Place of Origin: Born in Southfield, Michigan, raised in Dearborn, Michigan, currently languishing in Los Angeles, California

What Is Your Ethnic Origin: Irish/Polish… Perfect Mix For Lots of Drinking I suppose

How Would You Describe Your Love Life: Bleak, Narcissistic, and Envious but holding out for Magic

Your Family Life: I talk to my Mom a lot but regard my Father and Sister as near strangers and as such, am terrified to see them.

Your Friendship Life: Excellent. I try to give my best to those closest to me. Though I love the people surrounding me I sometimes have to stifle the urge to run into the desert and subsist off of possums without ever having another conversation.

Current Lifestyle: Allows me to become an expert on basketball and have long conversations when they are warranted. On the other hand, I don’t do much for myself.

How Good Are You At Math: Terrible

What Do You Enjoy Wasting Time On: Reading about basketball, playing catch, talking with Nick about the most trivial of matters, reading books I know I will forget, pretending to be mentally retarded, rubbing my belly.

What Is Your Favorite Food: Orange Chicken

Do You Wear A Watch: No

How Would You Describe Your Personal Fashion Sense: Most of my clothes were given to me in a garbage bag. As a result I am usually dressed like I am either about to play basketball or sleep in a teepee. I also wear unitards.

Professional/Creative

What Is Your Ultimate Be All End All Goal: To live in a Hogan Home funded by displays of my brilliance with a wife I love and my six daughters. If this doesn’t pan out I would very much like to fill Will Ferrell’s shoes as America’s Favorite Drunken Clown.

How Do You Get Closer To This: Keep writing, living, and imagining. Also: open my heart as wide as it can go and let everyone inside.

What Are Your Fallback Plans: Work on a sitcom, play Tenori-On on the street, find work somewhere anywhere in a zoo.

Of The Past Year…Of What Are You Proudest: Writing a novel, being well liked by children, generally acting like an imbecile.

Of The Past Year… Of What Are You Least Proud Of (Don’t share if you are uncomfortable): Putting off the novel to read about basketball and watch pornography, pick one of eleven or twelve depressing nights.

What Was The Most Fun Day Of The Past Year: Christmas Eve 2007. My Mother, dear friends, and I had an excellent dinner of shrimp. Afterwards, I went upstairs and wrote 40 pages. Then, I picked up Pete for a depressing breakfast at Big Boy. Afterwards, we peeked into family windows as they opened their presents.

What Was A Bad Day: My first day of French III. Being so far behind and requisitely an imbecile put me far behind in the class. I looked at Sourya, an overweight Indian man with a command of the language and wished I were he. He plays video games for four hours a day and I was ready to give up everything, for a grade, to become him. No offense if you’re reading Sourya, I think you’re tops but we are VASTLY different creatures.

If You Could Get Paid To Do One Thing What Would It Be: Act weird and scream in public.

If You Could Live Anywhere Where Would It Be: Rome

What Is Your Career GPA: 3.65/college 2.5/high school

What Was Your SAT/ACT Score: 28 but this was skewed by a 17 in Math and a 26 in Reading.

PEPSI or COKE: Pepsi

Describe Your Work Habits: I wait for days and days to get in the zone. If I don’t get into the zone it is a bad day but if I do I am liable to walk arou8nd happily in the early hours and drink one beer in a meadow of USC’s campus.

Draw A Cartoon (Use Microsoft Paint or Photoshop If Necessary): I put it at the top of this post. If you lacked context, I have utilized my entire Chinese History class to draw a series of bulbous creatures known as Borgs that always say “BORG”. This is a Bog on Halloween, dressed as a ghost, scaring another Borg.

Write A Haiku:

A rash on my thigh.

I itched but told my lover

“They’re constellations”

Describe a Fun Dream You Have Had:

I dreamed that Brock and I were riding on a plane that had been affixed with a bomb. We both knew, beforehand, that a bomb was on the plane… but decided the easiest was out was to built a train that would aide in our escape from the plane. We did. We lived. The would be bomber was this fellow who worked at Zemeckis two years ago and yelled at me once.

If You Do Drugs or Partake In Copious Amounts of Alcohol How Do You Feel When Affected: Pretty good, slightly weird, only mournful when awake waaaaaaaay past my bedtime.

Off The Top Of Your Head…If You Could Dedicate Yourself To ONE Thing What Would It Be: Guerilla Playgrounds!!!!!!!!

In Flux

What Will You Be Doing In A Year: No idea. I'm a failure waiting to happen.

In A Month: Spending idle time w/ Mom and Sister

In A Week: Fretting over the novel

Tomorrow: Fretting over the novel and perhaps taking a beautiful girl on a long walk.

Why: Because I have no idea where the winds will take me. I am powerless in their grasps but it is oh so necessary to strive

Describe What You Find To Be Meaningful: Making people smile, laugh, and play.

Attempt To Explain A Concept You Hold Near And Dear But Fear Others Will Not Understand:

The Great Narrative is a lot like destiny without the force and aided by a shrewd sense of humor. T.G.N. understands how pitiful and hilarious are the existences shared by human, cacti, and dolphins and provides a reason for every peony interaction. Like God, but nice, free flowing, open-sourced, and willing to be scribed by his loyal denizens.

What Do You Do Immediately After Waking Up: Stare at Nick, stumble downstairs, find moccasins, plan my trek to school or read 5-10 pages of some bullshit.

How Good Are You At Math: Terrible

If You Could Change One Thing About Yourself What Would It Be: I’d like to be accepting of everything!!! J Without a debate first…

If You Could Point One Good Thing About Yourself To Others What Would It Be:

The thing I am predisposed to point to is the thing I already know… I am a fairly good writer. I know this and would happy if you noticed if I’d have shaved recently.

Conditions for Success ie Failure's Silver Lining ie How the Past Year Has Made Me A Much Better Alien

2008-11-23T18:59:00.000-08:00

Not to be extravagant, but of my several skills there are several that stand out: I carry an encyclopedia of American Professional Basketball beginning in the year 1979 around with me in my head, I excel at acting absurd, and have excellent reading comprehension. Assuming this last fact to be true, and not some vanity induced delusion, it is fair to assume that the things I read affect me. My latest readings have been socioeconomic mash-ups that, in a nutshell, stand to decipher the determinants of success via divergently different ways. These books, far from the life affirming works of Murakami or even say Kesey's Jail Journal, cast a shadow of doubt on all life's endeavors.

If I have learned anything it is that:

1. The only control I have over my destiny is by working hard and laboriously with a sunny disposition.

2. It is best not to expect anything.

3. Keeping quiet is a good thing.

4. Illustrations prove a much better guide than pictures.

5. Unitards, though fun to wear, are ultimately unflattering and I should think twice before designating my "Spirit Garment" as something designed for super fit pre-teens.

Of the lessons I've learned, paramount among them is the exciting offers that lie in failure.

Last year, during Christmas Break, my friends Nick, Hoopster, John, and I decided to recapture our glory by making a movie. It was no small endeavor. We braved sub-zero temperatures to film brutal murders in the unforgiving Michigan Frost. We built a tawdry spaceship and came together as a team, but the project never came together. Because we never had anything to show, I classified it as a failure. My portrayal of "Fenkel" was a relic destined for the dust of human beings too absconded by their own shit to ever know true beauty. We had good ideas, a fun time making it, but we'd never laugh (over beers perhaps?) over the finished product.

Almost a year later...

I didn't give a shit about film making.

I thought of the past 3 years as a waste while I flirted with the idea of becoming a novelist, sailor, or needle-nosed prong in the Academic Monster.

Then, Nick, rife with indecision came to me fretting about the prospects of his latest film, a short top be produced for his 290 class. For those of you not in the USC film school, 290 is the life blood of our entire institution. It is our only chance to fully express ourselves as creative artists and produce full-fledged manifestations of ourselves.

A microcosm of myself: I came to USC riding waves of self-fulfilled projects. I took 290 in my first semester and felt ready to take the world over, only to find myself mired in the bureaucratic wreckage of holding a boom pole and getting permits for the next two years. If I hadn't fallen into a certain blessed group of friends I absolutely SHOULD HAVE DROPPED OUT TWO YEARS AGO.

But I digress. What I mean to say is that 290 is a big deal. I suppose I could have just typed that but flinging fancy words around never grows old. I get to pound my keyboard and letting me visit ESPN.com with my alarming frequency.

Talking with Nick it was clear he had no handle on his latest film. I proposed we remake our old friend "Podding". He thought of making it in Michigan with our old buds John and Pete. Than, the idea dawned on us... we should make this film in L.A. within the confines of our current structure. This meant I would be able to reprise my role as "Fenkel" but it also meant that the finished product would display the discrepancies between our Michigan lives and their Los Angeles incarnates.

We're almost done shooting. I have spent this entire weekend in the mindset of Fenkel, a hand smelling alien from the planet Shizzanafrottoma. In the process I thought I was losing my mind.

However, our past failures are no longer failures. They paved the way for this. The past year's events have prepared us both to honestly and accurately portray the story of an Alien coming to Earth and laying eggs all over the place.

There is no failure. There is only gestation.