OMG WTF WTF!

This is important, for me at least. From this point on I am dropping all conjectures, posturing, and characteristics that make this blog this blog. This is pure humanity, or some closely applicable emotion, coming forth toward you and yours. 

In this world I fancy myself as a bit of a badass. As pertaining to most things I honestly don't give a fuck. I am forever unfazed. This has led to the loss of great loves and the ignorance of unspeakable beauties. Despite the bad this has exacerbated my individual streak while toughening me in such a process that can only be compared to that of old meat. In my life I have been heart broken, robbed at gun point, and attacked. All without so much as raising an eyebrow. However, I'll be looking like The Rock tonight. My eyebrows are in the stratosphere, I'm shaken to the bones. 

I don't relate so well to women. I'm frequently in love due to idealizing. I frankly worship the alien species, but without so much as a quark of understanding. With every girlfriend, hookup, and fling I have laughed in the face of dangers explicitly doled out to the females of our species. I have even, shamefully, been known to say "it's not rape, it's surprise sex". 

Maybe I'm a girl tonight. Maybe I'm a bit more human. 

I demurred from a sexual encounter after a roommate's stupid mistake.  Thoroughly disinterested, I ignored kisses. Thoroughly annoyed, I ignored cock grabs before sending this mutant on her merry way. Final tally 3 kisses, 4 gropes, and 3 cock grabs. I hated each and every gesture. I sent her on her way quickly. 

Soon thereafter I went to sleep feeling a little dirty but nonplussed nonetheless. Then came a knock on the door. In bed, I ignored it. Then came more knocks. Then came screams for my name. Screams, screams, screams, screams, screams, and screams. It sounded as if I was being born outside my own door. 

At this point, our house became vandalized, an apt target for spray paint. At this point, a fist went through a window. Then a fist went through another window. At this window, I was terrified in a completely new way. I never understood why doors were locked until this juncture. 

In such a circumstance, one becomes unsure, uncertain, and afraid of any and all aspects of humanity. This was not only a wake up call but a reminder of the ridiculous nature of humanity. I realize that when under the influence stupidity is subjected to much growth and exposure. Screaming outside my door like a ravenous hound I hear the very worst of humanity. 

Part of me wishes I was deaf. 

Ey Yo Chico An Autobiography of Joel

Let's be honest. Let's be frank. In short, I suggest expressing the things we couldn't normally express. In my humble opinion that is what honesty is. Half of the people I care about, presumably read this website. Unfortunately that number is either 4 or 3. In case you aren't a Math Major that means I care about 6 or 8 people. I love more than this amount, I respect much more than this amount, but I won't let many more than this amount to really know me. Of course, 2 of these 6/8 are my parents. I admit I am a sucker for things of such an ilk. If your placenta paved the way for my existence I will be forever indebted and will never shut the door on your love. In turn, you will have my respect.



Lately, I feel distracted. Unable to work, unwilling to play (unless drunk) I have become willing to drift in the doldrums of American College Society. This would be easy and in fact sensible if my cohorts were Samuel Beckett and Andre the Giant but that is not the case. Though outgoing, though charismatic I find myself distancing my current incarnation from my peers. This is not a bad thing per se. You will not know my doldrums. Seeing me on a daily basis you will undoubtedly consider me a force of nature and spontaneity like a Hurricane or early Steve Martin. If you are the sort to consider such things I undoubtedly respect you. If not you are either Mike Tyson or someone I hardly care for.

I have intentionally cut myself off.

Working is too much to expect. Doing something badly is hardly worth the effort instead I wait until the day where I won't do anything subparly. Subparly is a good word.

I look back to the past and wonder if I, in fact, peaked too soon.

At 17, I directed a feature film against all odds. I made my own luck, defied the odds, and found success. It premiered before 800 people at a dollar theatre at five dollars per ticket. This was a good feeling.

At 18, I directed and wrote a play while almost killing my father in the process. At this window in time I didn't care. It was worth it. In a small nowhere town I was somebody. I stood out. I was the rare person who did things and took risks. In retrospect it was all petty bullshit. I would have been better served surfing for pussy and doing the best Cocaine Detroit had to offer. It isn't that I didn't care. I cared for this project like gangbusters or Ghostbusters. It is the simple fact that I didn't understand what made projects of such an ilk important or integral. I wrote it. I directed it. BUT I didn't own it. I should have been digging graves.

At 19, I got arrested, wrote a novel (unpublished it is called Killing McKluckey), and skipped town to travel Europe. This was again just short of an honest endeavor. Not enough whiskey, not enough fun, too much walking. I was in the hospital after almost dying from internal bleeding and for the first time I understood what I ought to be. I ought not to give a fuck. At this juncture I vowed never to care again. Life was fine. To borrow from Benini, Life was beautiful.

At 20, I was getting there.
At 21, I was me.
Since then I am happy, vigorous, but generally bored. Nothing is worth the effort. All is bound to be misunderstood or stricken from the record books.

I haven't looked back since. I'm satisfied, happy, but afraid to move on from the current version. It'll happen soon I'm sure of it. Beacons call to me like I'm a freighter. I have to be cognizant of their existence or else I'm bound to be like Steve Francis. Although prone to shoot and steal and block, I don't want to live on in the shadows of being ignored. I'm not ready to be a role player. Dell Curry, I ain't. I'd rather give twenty seconds of brilliance than ten years of servitude.

This is all setting the stage for the right luscious brunette to save me from myself.

I CAN'T WAIT!!!!

P.S. Eric Clapton and I are solemates.


ALSO

We have a new feature here at Hindenburg. It is called the List.

Here is the List...

Alcoholic Beverages I wish were served at Christmas Time
1. A Gingerbread House filled with Beer, Wine, and Peach Schnapps.
2. Hot Cocoa, Gypsy Fingernails, and Nail Polish
3. Ouzo, Salt Lick, and a single lick of peppermint
4. Santa's beard and Vodka.

On a tangent... If Santa Clause were to exist there is no way that he wouldn't be Russian.







I tried to post pictures of other Seattle Supersoncis Power Forwards to further promote my unfulfilled potential. Shawn Kemp, Chris Wilcox, and Michael Cage are all harbingers of my existence. However, my understanding of html only lets me post one picture at a time. Vin Baker and his drinking problem best represent me. Thank God I am not Kevin Durant. I don't want to curse him.

Wasteful Wasteful Wasteful

Reading glamorous magazine featurettes usually only breeds disdain unless the subject is Steve Nash or Sean Penn. Reading a recent bit on Benecio del Toro aka Duke the Dog Faced Boy aka My Mother's Man Crush aka The man whose picture hung in my adolescent toilet, I have no doubts that you should spend Christmas with very own Jimmy Pterodactylus. Jimmy, the dream is yours and that is everything we strive for and more.

As for me I have been doing my best to place a foothold in this world while keeping Dartmouth in check and checking on Archibald. Last I hear he's in Nova Scotia because he wants to find something real. The thing we're all sort of dealing with here is that on these steps to adulthood it is easy to get lost. Things that should not be cared for are given a booming presence of mind. I suppose it is easy to get lost and wander in insecurities like Moses with waaaaaay more game. However, there are still friends out there who care enough to state the obvious and call you out.

Machine Gun Kelly: "You should really do more. By the time you graduate I want you to have a million dollars and give me one hundred thousand dollars".

With these simple self centered words a change has been struck. As a somewhat heavy drinker I am no stranger to epiphanies. In an inebriated state it is easy top forsee great change and earth shaking alterations to every aspect of one's life. This mitigates the sensation of finding a change that might somehow be applicable. While this epiphany came drunk it lingers into the cold sober morning. (I have been cold constantly for weeks). Eh, maybe I'll be a person I ought to be.

I feel like I've been banging for days, though my dick ain't been wet for months. How's that fit you Lil' Wayne

NOTES

Pride.
Pride should be reserved for parents, mentors, and point guards. I guess Religious Leadership is fine too as long as animal sacrifice is required. The word should not be bantied about like some beach ball but dolefully given to the most worthy. By my own definition how can I be proud of a peer? Saying "I appreciate and recognize your efforts, even though they slightly surprise me" is an awkward phrase.

LISTS (A New Feature)

Things I would say to Philip Seymour Hoffman if we ever met.
1. Thank you for bringing the term "sharted" into my vernacular. I was always stretching for words when describing said event to my girlfriend.
2. Remember in Red Dragon when you were sent burning down the street in a wheelchair? You're a really fun guy to watch being murdered.
3. Ever thought about playing an Albino? Cause, um, nevermind.
4. "Insert something about basketball"

in order to strengthen your aiming eye...

Things to do this holiday season:

--Get drunk and wander around Home Depot.

--Prove that you're the "cool uncle" by wearing a monocle, sleeping with a shotgun, drinking whiskey for breakfast, etc.

--Create a machine that presses leftover stuffing into bread shapes, so that the stuffing can be utilized as bread in a leftovers sandwich (this is my idea, fuckers, patent pending. PATENT MOTHERFUCKING PENDING, alright? Alright...).

--Goad stupid, inbred, pathetic townies you know from high-school into a deadly road-race.

--Grow long flowing beard and hair, don robe and sandals, and challenge mall Santa to a fistfight under the pretense of being Jesus. After you thoroughly trounce the fat bastard, root through his pockets and get a pretzel at the food court (don't forget to ask for a little plastic tub of nacho dipping cheese).

--Eggnog. Eggnog, eggnog, eggnog.

I Fucking Suck At Basketball

It's alright. Basketball has only been a lifelong love. I'll think of it like a divorcee thinks of the mistress that lead to everything going awry. I may be awful but at the very least I'm awful in an interesting way. I have the skills, the size, and the energy, but a brain like a tipped cow all urgent and unable to focus.

My NBA dreams are officially dead. Even Sergei schooled me.

I'm thinking bigger, like freak show big

Author's Note: Recently an acquaintance of mine made fun of my complete disregard for capitalization, grammar and spelling, and while I'd usually be all, "fuck you, yo," I kind of dig said acquaintance, so for at least a baby bit I'll be trying that whole writing correctly thing.

The best way to describe my life post academia would be one of fragmentation. I've found it really hard, as of these last six or so months, to focus on anything really. I start and read the first 50 pages of book after book (but never more), watch movies at 32x speed (because who has more than 8 minutes to spare), and listen to bits and pieces of songs when once I could listen to full albums for hours on end (this one I'll blame on the increasing influence of my iPod on my music listening habits). One would think with class and homework no longer taking up 20-40 hours of my week, I'd find it easier to focus on these means of cultural betterment, but apparently that isn't how shit works.

It's kind of a drag, but it seems like it's just the further realization (I know there's a much better word, for what I'm thinking, but it's not coming to mind right now, so if anyone knows it please feel free to offer it up in the comments section) of a lifelong problem of mine. Increasingly, espcecially since the end of my teenage years, I've found myself with the constant feeling of having bits and pieces of what I need, but the inability to bring it all together. It's like I'm Adrien Beltre pre 2004 (the year he finished second behind Bonds in MVP voting), I have the tools but for some reason I can't turn myself into the complete package.

Now to what this has to do with me being unable to read books, watch movies, or listen to music (because while I realize this makes complete sense in my head it might not make sense to all three of you who may be reading). See the thing is I always envisioned that once school ended I would finally have time to do all the stuff that I'd so desperately needed more time for when I was still in school. I find myself with the materials, the time, and most importantly the will to consume, I just can't do it. I don't what it is, but I'm hoping to figure it out soon and finally finish The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman.

I don't know though, maybe I'll never figure it out. Or maybe I'm just being a bitch, and without something else to steal time away from to culturally consume, I'm bored by it. They say you always want what you can't have, and maybe that's what this is a case of. Or maybe I realize that my time could be spent better--you know like maybe producing some shit of my own. You know, like the kind of shit that will change the world and shit. Yeah maybe that's what it is.

***

I find I play basketball best when I think of Clipse's song "Trill." For some reason when I'm playing that song in my head, basketball just seems to make sense. It also allowed for me to hear Minxie's panting on the court tonight, as he was coming from behind for a steal. That's right Clipse saved my life tonight(or at least saved me the shame of having been neutralized on the break by that fucker).

Also, I talked to Archibald's dad last night. If you were wondering why you haven't seen anything from him up here lately, there's a reason. Apparently Betsy broke poor Archibald's heart just hours after his last post, and he fled the rehabilitation clinic. Neither we here at Bring Back the Hindenburg or Archibald's family have heard of him, but in the hopes that he or someone who knows where he is reads this, please let us know, so that we can stop him before he falls back into his old life in Chesapeake Bay. There few things that boy needs less that his mother. Well maybe reruns of The King of Queens but I think that goes for all of us, not just Archibald. That's right fuck you Kevin James. Fuck you.

Gayest Soulmates Ever?

As a little child (I was a midget) growing up in the rural outskirts of the Urban Environ I had yet to catch the crazy fire of confidence that makes my current incarnation an arsonist's wet dream.

Wait, let me start over. This debate does not need my style or idlewild blog lyrics. This debate needs to be studied as stately and astutely like a History major's Thesis. There's a reason they don't allow PHD's to have personalities you know. Onward to suppress.

As a kid I was a picky eater. Onions, mushrooms, and anything with what experts define as "texture" was stricken from my diet in favor of Ramen Noodles, Hamburger Helper, and other food items with optional chewing. I lived in this world of dietary restrictions for most of my childhood, ignoring the great reserve of Arabic food my town held, and th Norwegian niche of whale Blubber. I have no defense for this. It was a closeted life.

Ummmmmmmm. I pause as I write this but I was destined to come out of the food closet or pantry. In recent years, trying new experiences and answering all dares have become pillars of great importance in my young, supple life. They sit high on my list of priorities next to meeting Lucy Pinder and directing Hollywood horror films shot in Canada.

In the interest of living a more fulfilling and interesting life I have not pursued big changes. I don't own a llama. I don't swing. I don't even look out of my left eye while driving. Instead I focus on facets, hoping that their exploration may lead to some sense of fulfillment,adventure, or theology. The end results of this strategy have been sleeping in other people's beds, not washing clothes from the thrift store (so that I can smell like someone else), and eating a new food every day.

The pursuit of a daily new food has led my to let Watermelon Barbeque Sauce mingle on my tongue and made plastic pears stunt my intestinal system. Regardless, this has been a new experience. It not only exacerbates my understanding of what food is good I can safely say that I understand that I know what food is. Food is something you eat for sustenance/style. This style eating can be called conspicuous consumption if you enjoy Economics jokes.

I entered this quest because food wasn't doing much and it was up to me to find a more palatable taste. I have continued this road but a force looms. No longer content to serve ub the Status Quo the fine folks at Nabisco Foods have joined me on this journey by producing new varieties of flavors for both Wheat Thins and Triscuit.

This change in flavor represents a shifting of the cracker into the 21st century. this much maligned snack food has sat on our most ignored aisles (next to Power Bars!!!) waiting to be eaten. They were good snacks, viable for a drunk endeavor or road trip but little else. No one was thinking about Wheat Thins, no one was talking about Triscuit. Unless you were a cracker connoisseur it is safe to assume that you didn't give a shit.

The evolution of flavors has gone from Chocolate to Vanilla to Other sweets. Salty snacks were given a share of Sodium and sent on their way but this wasn't enough for Nabisco. With the innovation of Fire Roasted Tomato and Basil, Rosemary and Olive Oil, and Parmesean Basil crackers have not only expanded their cultural boundaries but their efficacy as well. They are more distinct, flavorful, and important. These crackers are on the tip of our tongues both literally and figuratively. These indelibly important snack foods represent the changing world around us in a way that only Cracker's can.

I will still eat a new food every day, but it'll probably just be a new type of Wheat Thin or Triscuit before long. No longer content to be mere fodder for our snacking urges these snacks have risen up in the form of revolution. Who knows what they are capable of.

Dartmouth Minx does not write for slate. he plays darts at local taverns until his shoulders get sore, wherein he receives a full body massage from a Thai transvestite. You can read much of his work at Slate.com if you are willing to use your imagination and pretend that Dartmouth Minx wrote it.

check out that enormous pimp-quality fur coat on Henry VIII

"Dwayne Michael Carter, Jr. (born September 27, 1982 in New Orleans, Louisiana), better known by his stage name Lil Wayne, is an American rapper."

"Thomas Ruggles Pynchon, Jr. (born May 8, 1937) is an American writer based in New York City, noted for his dense and complex works of fiction."

Are they so different, these two Americans? One a yankee, the other a southern boy; born decades apart, both would rise up from the mundane American sea and bitch-slap the country hard on the mouth. O, these two legendary titans; these two gigantic juniors; these two commanding generals of self-armed clone armies which wield bazookas that discharge unstoppable torrents of wit, vigor, action, sex, comedy, violence, history, religion, futurism--long & tangled ropes of words (in the languages of Milton, of Voltaire, Richard Feinman) that snake about and bandy with meaning, disregard, bandy again, squeeze your sister's breasts, breath in your ear, take a bite of your sandwich, and then quietly wait while you give up the contents of your wallet and the days of your calendar.

Both Dedication 2 and The Crying of Lot 49 knocked me immediately on my ass and made me a devotee in a span of 2 days. It took me several months and more than one attempt to read Gravity's Rainbow; I had the same problem with The Carter II. But this pairing goes beyond mere superficial comparisons. In fact, fuck that. disregard what I wrote above (and don't, for the love of Christ, attempt to read any Pynchon while listening to Lil Wayne--especially don't mix the orgy scene on the riverboat in G.R. with "Did It Before"...I graduated Summa from Princeton while high on Oxycontin and holding a thermos full of Johnny Walker and A&W root-beer, and I even I would not attempt such a feat). Just know that there are no other writers like Pynchon; no other rappers like Weezy F. Baby (please say the baby). And, for that matter, Lil Wayne is also a writer, isn't he? And as for Thomas Pynchon, well, I don't know if he can rap, but he can certainly design (and, ostensibly, build) a multiple-warhead missile to launch at your mom's house (where you, no doubt, live in the basement "apartment") and kill you 46 ways from Sunday, motherfucker, so don't go doubting Pynchon's ultra-thuggitude.

When I first decided to write all of this out, I was going to pull out all of the stops--citations from their various works, analytical breakdowns, footnotes, and the rest. But the fact is, the very second that I started writing, I lost my shit. I couldn't fucking handle it. The shit's mad visceral, son; the internet can't hope to convey any real information or, dare I say, emotion about these men (though Thomas Pynchon may have invented the internet). It can only pay homage, act as a temporary shrine.

Fuck, I've worked myself into a frenzy here. I'm speechless. I need a drink. Tommy P. once said, "Why should things be easy to understand?" Weezy F. once said, "My chain Toucan Sam; that tropical colors you can't match that; Gotta be abstract."

They're goddamn right, goddamn it.

no! what would you do for a klondike bar?

sometimes when i have trouble sleeping i find myself lying in bed wondering what it would be like to feed from the teat of the damned. it is still a question that i still do not have an answer for, but i do know what it is like to eat thanksgiving dinner with a bunch of straight up ukranians (and despite my name i dont hail from ukraine), for that is what i spent my thanksgiving 2k5 doin.

i live in a ramshackle cinder block apartment complex seconds walking distance from la's famous meat packing district. to say the least, it is a less than desirable place to live, but despite this my
experience living here has been pretty alright. the main reason for this are my 13 house mates, all of who are ukranian hot dog salesmen. although we live in 2 cramped rooms we get along well, and they invited me to celebrate thanksgiving with them their way this year. what is their way you may ask? well apparently it consist of drinking lots of peach schnapps, manhattans and mojitos; eatin a shit loada tacos, snuggling, and traditional gaelic singing and dancing (of which they no nothing, so they just make it up as they go). the magical night was capped off by a series of fist fights and goat and lama riding. as you'd expect this all turned out to be quite wonderful.

but yeah with thanksgiving 2k7 drawing to a close, i thought it only appropriate that it be written of in the record books. the sexual record books.

We don't need a seahorse lamp to look orange.

Somedays it's hard to crawl out of bed. This would sound like depression from most people but not from me. I have such a cool bed that my mattress has it's own window! Do you know what that window is filled wit? I don't either but I like to imagine that my mattress window is brimming with beer and pussy. Needless to say I don't leave the bed much. I have a window, a Bebe gun, and an old Buick in the front lawn. I could never walk again and be happy with a set up like this.

When I leave the bed I like it to be for something good, usually a parade or quick round of fire golf (it's like regular golf while commiting arson). However there are the rare occasions when even old Minxie is called on to work. Don't worry too much folks, I only work holidays and I only work construction.

I stand on the fifth floor with my lunch box pretending to hammer while wondering how accurate my estimation of breasts are from up so high. I also like to watch my coworkers work.
Occasionally these guys will yell at me for not working but that's where I got 'em cornered. Unless you are into that sort of thing and run www.stevehjoseph.com (drinking non-alcoholic daquiris in your mother's basement) and take the method behind your mayhem seriously (I take my methods with speed balls). Anyhow. belief systems are at their truest best form when used for exploitation. Call me lazy? Hard workers are boring. Have I forgot to clip my fingernails? They are an erogenous zone. Have you caught me shoplifting? Meijers doesn't even deserve money anyway.

Seriously don't shop at meijer's.

Randomly adopting systems of beliefs might make me traverse some otherwise undiscovered road but the more I make these trips again. I guess my whims are all the same.

I'm gonna go ride a roller coaster while attempting to read Tolstoy. I bet Shawn Marion I could do this.

i can roll holy ghost from coast to coast

Not often do I find myself so close to possible death. Well, alright, alright, fairly often I find myself staring steelily into the mug of death. Less often, however, does death spit bits of fried chicken on me.

During a cramped and crowded train ride this evening, somewhere beneath 32nd street, I find myself the closest in proximity to this man: tall, fat--rotund, perhaps--dressed in an oversized camoflauge parka and mis-matched sweatpants and -shirt. Perched on his bejowled face are a pair of large black plastic rimmed glasses, which I later notice have no lenses in place. He munches contentedly on a drumstick of fried chicken.

Just after the doors close, he looks up. "Which one of you motherfuckers just shushed me?" he yells. Chicken meat, fat, and gristle spew out onto those of us nearby.

The rambling begins. "Fuck you, motherfuckers! Don't you be motherfuckin' shushin' me, I don't give a fuck, you motherfuckers, I don't give a motherfuck if you white or black. Fuck, my grandfather was a whitey, I don't care, shit. Motherfuckers, I got my Tek-9 in my fuckin' bag right here." He glances down at a navy blue duffel at his feet. I glance too. He fixes a googly eye on a snazzily-dressed young black man up the car; "You think I care if you a white son of a bitch?" Chicken bits continue to spray. "I've got something to show you motherfuckers!" he yells, turning back to once again address the entire car. "I'm fuckin' prepared, I'm from the old school..." He retrieves the bag which, ostensibly, contains a Tek-9 firearm. He holds it aloft and points a finger at its dangling weight. "Fuckin' right."

All at once he plunges down the tightly packed car; "Excuse me, motherfucker; I'm gonna find who was shushin' me--when I push you and say 'Excuse me,' that means fuckin' move!" He wades through the crowd and down toward the next set of doors, where he sets himself upon several different people as possible shushers. The navy duffe is left alone. No one touches it; I cast it furtive glances.

He comes back to his original post. At this point, I'm beginning to sweat just a tiny bit in my tweed coat. Yes, I'm enjoying this as a lark on some level, but there's the lingering possibility of that pistol. The man plants his feet wide, hitches up his sweatpants toward his belly fat, and stares directly past the back of my head. "Yeah, motherfuckers, yes." He leans down and unzips his duffel, then stands back up to stare again at the young black fellow up the car from me. His eyes narrow. The train pulls in at the next stop, he tosses the gnawed and denuded bone to the train's floor, and steps lightly out onto the platform.

Also, earlier in the day, I encountered a man in a full camoflauge jumpsuit, with antennae fashioned from glowsticks. He lamented the fact that he, a being from another galaxy, was marooned here after a planned 19-year mission to study humanity went awry after his spacecraft broke. He admonished us to contribute "human earth currency" to its repair, and then said he would attempt to communicate with us in his native language. He lifted a baritone sax and played a sprawling free-jazz squonk indebted to Ayler and late Coltrane. I would have given him some money, but I didn't have any.

bombay sapphire, the mana of the un-gods (aka denziens of hell)

"mary jane...i wanna fuck you."

those were the magical words uttered to me by jimmy on a mumbai balcony on cinco de mayo 2k5. wed met just a few months earlier and things had going on long swingingly. wed terrorized much of the city, literally painting shit red whenever we were given the chance. wed even occasionally taken our show on the road when we could find a sean john sportin hobo (who because of a fucked up left foot and his proliferation for wearing stolen timberlands couldnt walk straight) to accompany us to such far off cities like nashik and kolhapur.

surprisingly these words didnt change things between us, in part because my name isnt mary jane and also because jimmy didn't want to fuck me (also had we fucked it wouldve been bestiality, and despite what dartmouth might go on to say in the coming weeks, i aint pinch hitting for no one). instead we laughed, high fived one another, and went back inside to watched bootlegged x-files dvds with oregonians, crazy chicks from iladelphia, and a kid who was obsessed with using jimmy's mom's tried and true family recipe to make blueberry muffins before the apocalypse arrived at 5 am that morning.

i share this story now, because it is jimmy's birthday today, and that sentence he uttered to me on the balcony is one of my most cherished moments of our friendship. that's right good ol dr dinosaur is adding another ringlet to his insides taunting us all to catch up as fast as we can. though he might be an archaeologist lets hear it for doctor dinosaur and all he has come to mean.

big ups to you dr. eat a butter sandwich and dream about rory, youve reached an age where you can get away with it.

President Boog3r!!!

Movements begin with irritability and then revolutionaries. These revos scour the tide with their angst bringing about changes and perhaps getting Japanese designed tattoos for their handiwork. Without these revolutionaries we would be British/French/Native American and the Hurricanes would still be the Whalers.

The revolutionaries are good but they need an audience. Those cold, stoic folks who calmly watch and slowly nod in approve. Teguh Tiaz you are our audience. You are so stoic that you speak Italian without smiling. You wear baseball hats without having any knowledge of what ios on the front. You bring the tao into the 21st century, but only after getting it tricked out at West Coast Customs without the aid of one actor/rapper/Sestinist Xzibit.

Born with a face like mine the only place for approval is Indonesia. It is nice to know that there is love out there somewhere. If my government would only give me a passport I would come viosit in a heartbeat. I don't know what we'd do buyt it would surely involve a lot of frolicking, but not the gay kind. I save the gay kind of frolicking for Flag Day as the holiday was conjured up when Thomas Jefferson gave Ben Franklin "good luck hand job" before the annual cornhole tournament.

Someday we'll make Zombie movies together. I hate Zombie movies but I feel like if anyone could get me to love them it's you.

we've only just begun...(white lace & promises)

When I was a small child, growing up in the reedy thickets of Indiana, I had my share of dreams. Oh, they were small dreams, sure, but dreams none the less. I hoped to one to one day own a cow, and perhaps somehow use this cow-ownership as leverage to launch and oversee a thriving cheese factory. How sensible, you may say, how mid-western and blase. Those accusations may be true, but those were my dreams; unfortunately, I held them deep within the fortress of my heart, never to let them out. Which is why I now live as I do: a well-to-do archaeologist in a town of upturned noses, instead of the jolly, overalls wearing proprietor of a thrumming cheese concern.

Teguh Tiaz has lived differently than I. Though I know very little about this bastion of glittery hope amid the gray, oatmealy tumult of daily life, I am secure that young Teguh looses his dreams from his heart as stallions from the racing gate. Teguh has never been booted from an Ivy League crew team for assaulting an opposing team with an oar; if he has had any contact with this noble sport, surely he has rowed proud and strong, leading his team to victory. And no doubt Mr. Tiaz' father never tackled him at his own high-school graduation before sitting atop him, demanding his only begotten son remove "his" Pierre Cardin loafers, "goddamnit". And I would be highly suprised if--well, excuse me, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Here's to you, Teguh Tiaz, for believing. It is for you, and others like you, that we are resurrecting the Hindenburg. Tonight, in your honor, I will pour and then drink several glasses of Campari, neat.

lets hear it for the mayor of awesometown

i know what it feels like to be punched, i know what amazing creme brulee tastes like, and i know how it feels to watch robert horry knock down and back breaking three when hes still on your team. but i do not know what it feels like to be awesome as our friend teguh tiaz.

while you may not be familiar with tiaz, we at bring back the hindenburg have come to know his as our number one fan. it is teguh (and people of his ilk) that we espouse about all things hindenburgian for. sure we may not know that much about him, but we know what matters most about him. he is from indonesia, he digs technology, and most importantly he is awesome.

without the venerable teguh tiaz this blog would not exist, and all of us (includin most of you im guessin) would be all the worse off because of it. so praise him from the top of the nearest mountain, for he is a truely great man. the kind of man you dedicate revolutions to.