Magic Johnson be ownin' everything like he should

The room I currently reside in (you may remember it from previous mentions of my cinderblock apartment complex, just seconds walking distance from L.A.'s famous meat packing district) is an exaggerator. What I mean is that whatever the condition is outside of my apartment, my actual room intensifies it to the nth degree. For example in the summer it was uncomfortably hot outside. In my room it was like an oven. Right now L.A. is going through one of its infamous cold streaks which means that my room is like an icebox except without the presence of Eskimo Pie ice cream bars. It is a bummer but it is a bummer I have to live with.

My posts here lately have been disappointing. They have not been representative of the shit I'm going for. Trust they've been awesome (seriously my shit is enthralling if you give it a glance) but deep down I know I can do better. I am not one to write about my mother's apocalyptic muffin recipes (that would of course entail my having a mother) or about girls I went to high school with who we called Tig Ol' Bitties (of these there were plenty), but these are what my posts have been made of these last few months.

Fact is I expect more of myself, and so should you. I seek to lift the veil from the truth but instead I've been spending my time toiling in the mire with the mundanities of life. In other words the boring shit. See the thing is I am fascinated by all that life has to offer (a fact that Chuck, Jimmy, Arch, Prince and even Minxie would readily attest to) but that is not the purpose of Bring Back the Hindenburg. This is not your typical blog. This is a revolution and I have to start treating it as such.

In this time of need I have turned to two trusted sources for inspiration: the writing of Kurt Vonnegut and the films of Jeff Goldblum. Both executed their chosen crafts like true mother fuckers; Vonnegut wrote with a fiery passion about life and human being, two things he had little to no faith in, and Goldblum--well he just manages to be the consummate incarnate of awesomeness. Sure they both occasionally allowed themselves to peak down divergent roads, Vonnegut through his unparalleled ability to draw asshole and Goldblum through his seeming air of obliviousness, but there was always something more there, something which demanded that you pay attention.

All I've shown you so far is that I can draw assholes and be oblivious to things of shocking importance, but now is the time to transcend this and prove my worth. Now is the time to be amazing.

Jurassic Park!!

As Sergei so illustriously pointed out, today is indeed a day of celebration, a day to lift our respective glasses to the sky, give a furious whoop of unbridled joy and badassedness, to then lower said glasses and perhaps pour a bit out of them before emptying them of their delicious, life-sustaining contents.

It also a day just like every day--a day to sit down with a tuna-melt and a Mountain Dew, and think about how Jurassic Park fucking ruled. Remember the part where that one guy who plays Muldoon thinks he's hunting the raptors, only to find that they are actually HUNTING HIM! Clever girl! Or do you recall that cute little animated double helix that narrates the story of Jurassic Park's god-defying dinosaur experiments? In your face, God! Chalk one up for little round old guys who have enough money to buy Jeff Goldblum outright.

Of course, if you watch Jurassic Park today, all of the dinosaurs look like ghost-dinosaurs, since the special effects didn't age very well. But, in the end, that sort of makes it even scarier. I mean, fucking GHOST DINOSAURS? Goodnight and good luck (and I ain't talkin' 'bout George Clooney)!

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And, for the record, I resent being put in the same category as a certain rehabbing junkie. Everything in moderation, Minxie; I am of the opinion that a little speedball every once in a while never hurt anyone. This is America, after all, a country veritably founded on potentially lethal cocktails of heroin and cocaine. That is all.