New Words in Treacherous Territory OR the worst thing you will ever read.

Given that one of my hobbies is reading and that a small portion of pride hinges on how often I read, I spend a good deal of time reading about sports. In my youth I plowed through the greats like Plimpton and certain oral histories of the ABA. These were the books that stirred my imagination, allowing sports to become the far reaching cultural metaphor and path of lessons and curses that guides much of my young (I think I'm in my 30's) life. Either I should have saved some of the good ones or I should look harder for good sports book because all that seems to be left now is a cacophony of over analysis and overreaction that teach me about the 3-4 defense rather than hilarity or myself. It isn't bad that the media has evolved, but what is bad is the blatant repetition of so many cliches. Pounded into our heads they become untouchable truths until sports reverts to its fickle, coincidental nature. Truths become lies and all we have left is memories of hyperbole.

"Football is a violent game."

There have been many recent tragedies in the game of pro football. I won't go into the specifics because that isn't the mission. What I will go into is the explanation. It is thought in many circles that since football players must tap into an instinctive, somewhat dangerous place for success on the field that it can lead to violence off of it. This could be true in certain cases. It might not be. That isn't important. What is vital here is that the argument makes sense. Reaching a higher, simpler level of life you become more powerful. That power can be used for a purpose, ie tackling Marion Barber, before getting easily discarded, or it can be the other thing. it can linger. With over confidence and the right situation, anything can seem possible. It should seem this way if you are a God on the field. If your body and mind provide such a clear path to adrenaline and destruction I will say that there is at least an inkling of a chance that things could go wrong.

What if you don't have an outlet for your passion. What if the world is your oyster? What if you're known and renowned for your visceral, adrenaline infused output. This same output is used as a rallying cry for those seeking to get fired up, know to induce cheers and better performances, while fueling so many B-Movie montages.

I guess what I'm trying to ask if "What if you're Gary Glitter?"

Gary Glitter is a musical icon, especially in England and at Sporting Events. Much of his adult life has been marked with a string of other worldly successes that have seperated him from the common man and put him on a pedestal next to other heroes, such as Gallagher. He owned a restaurant and a string of chart topping hits around the world. I presume he also owned one of the first VCRs. While I am assuming I can also guess that he bought both the Beta and the VCR because Glitter is fancy like that. So fancy, in fact, was Glitter that his name was synonymous with bright sparkling successes.

Nowadays the word Glitter conjures up a Mariah Carey movie, small bits of aluminum, and the world's second most musically gifted pedophile.

Was he always a pedophile? Or was there some change along the way? Such a drastic departure from society is usually explained with some deeply rooted trauma. Michael Jackson's dark habits have been rationalized using the rationale that he never had a childhood and wanted to have one. This also implies that Michael Jackson didn't talk to many kids before embarking on his second childhood. Hell, it implies that the man is unable to understand anything other than how to make one move.

I was brainstorming ideas for music videos the other day. It is a fun thing to pretend and I don't own a TV, so it is my best entertainment outlet. One of the songs I used as a lightning rod for ideas was Glitter's Rock and Roll Part II. I knew this song. I had many memories of it. I remember hearing it at many sporting events before a rally. I recall the emotion of being taken to another level. A place where nothing was impossible. A place where I could do no wrong. Regardless of my actions the world would love me still.

If this song produces such a strong effect of me, there is a chance that it speaks something stronger of it's producer. There is something big inside Glitter. Purpose, confidence, and a "Take No Prisoner's" attitude lie behind every chord of his music. What does it say about Glitter that his style is marked by such characteristics? Don't even try to tell me that is reflects someone cognizant of boundaries, human rights, and what actions are fucked up.

Using this song as a springboard Glitter had decades of success in a world of treats and fantasies that are usually fiction (and even then usually conjured by a genie). Is it possible that Glitter got pushed so far and became so bored that the only applicable challenge was to break society's greatest taboo and turn our purest objects into items of lust? Imagine what you would do if this song was playing in your head every waking moment.

It is disgusting. it is reprehensible, but it is possible. Adrenal effects are a dangerous and slippery slope and a lifetime of tapping into such a place can lead to a Vietnamese Prison.

A Good Life Despite the Absence of Shuttlecocks

For much of the past week I have been spending my nights sleeping in the bed of one Ms. Jessie Spano. She is the bartender who so graciously provided me with medical care after I was viciously assaulted last Saturday night. In case you were wondering, she is everything I feel a woman should be. I feel like this just might be love.

In other news, it rains here quite frequently. It rained plenty when I was living with mother in Chesapeake Bay but it was nothing comparison to this. I cannot fathom how life long residents of this part of the country have been able to deal with this for their whole lives. I know I would be quite depressed. Definitely much more so than I am and as has been well documented on Bring Back the Hindenburg I am a very depressed person.

I have been drinking a bit lately. Only a drink or two each day. The rain gets me all out of sorts, so I often need a quick jolt of brandy in the morning. Something to wake me from my stupor.

Because of the rain and my fear of the bar Jessie works at, I have been spending most of my time lying on her bed reading books from her "bookshelf." John Grisham is a bit too simplistic for my tastes, but I find Sue Grafton and Dean Koontz to be quite to my liking. Bang up job on Life Expectancy in particular Dean. I really do like these page turners, much more interesting than the things I read in high school. Not as time consuming either.

I should probably bring this post to an end. Jessie gets out of class in an hour or so and she made me promised to take her to lunch afterwards. It really is wonderful, this thing called love.

-AASXLIII

I Need A Knit Cap

In my past I have told you many truths. I've explained how Archie is an injector, Remus is a rapscallion, and how Curtis Granderson is a fuckwad. That doesn't matter now. I tell these things to everyone and I still don't know who Remus is. I presume he is possibly the King of Sweden.

There is a party. A legitimate, swoiree swirling about my midst. Here I am writing to you, a small core of Archie's lovers and Charlie's family. That's ok I suppose. Maybe I could gun for the quick fuck but I'd rather wait for love. I am the best person in at least 7 lives. I am not he best person I know, I'm not the person I ought to be. That person works at the zoo and lets the animals run around free at night. That is a person who deserves whatever they want. I don't think I have done that yet.


This is the first drought of my life. Like Andrea Bargnani or John Updike, two brothers in the grand scheme of it, I will not take charge. I can wait idly. I can twiddle my thumbs. Then and only then will the game come to me. In that instant I will actually appreciate the game.

Chris Kaman is reaching new heights. We ought to be there for him. Dismiss those silt conversations with silly neighbors, don't chase that tail feather. The most rewarding experience you can have is to watch Chris Kaman. He is tall, ugly, and addled with the ADD that defines his and my collective experience. It is a matter of fact that is you shoot arrows off your roof that we have something in common. I look at this glimmer and hope I will someday destroy all that is around me. I want the literary equivalent of 18 points and 14 rebounds. I also want the literary equivalent to Brazilian restaurants. My ambitions are boundless, endless, and silly. Tim Burton. We are strangers, but I think I get it.

Let's go to the Congo and pretend that it's Nigeria. Screaming won't protect us forever.

A special welcome to Vincent Vermouth. He will blow your min d in unusual ways starting as soon as he figures out how to post.

Mother and Son with Asperger's

12:39- It's my first day on the job and already somebody has accused me of wanting to be African.
12:40- 12:39 slipped away before I got to
12:41- Fuck, this keeps happening. Just 3 minutes ago
12:42- there was a beautiful black woman bound in duct tape on my bed and I could only think about
12:43- making love to the croon of White, Barry Mr. "Why are you blogging!? You can't blog right
12:44- now! Now!" I'm told if I devote 10 minutes to this that. Can I have that hat back? I AM NOT A VICTIM OF DATA SMOG.
12:45- But, but, but, I don't wanna. I'm rereading the past 6 minutes and I'm ashamed.
12:46- For whatever reason I'm entirely passive in my wasting of 6 minutes saying nothing of import. I'm mostly thinking about Bohr Atoms.
12:47- Tomorrow morning Santa Claus will test me on them. I'd like to sit on his lap and ask for the answers. He
12:48- strikes me as the type to enjoy it. Temporarily insane my ass. I'm just getting started.
12:49- When will I grow substantial facial hair? Apparently that is where the power lies.

Vincent Vermooth

Welcome to the Gravy Train

We here at Hindenburg are used to drama. The presence of Archie and Minxie insures that every Thanksgiving ends with one of them throwing the Turkey across the room in support of Republican Party Dark horses. They do this and they can't even vote. Minxie is a felon, Archie doesn't know how. Though they are a constant burn, we are used to it, it's who they are and, worsely, who they want to be.

Today's drama comes from our omnipresent conscience, ethical compass, and Detroit Tigers centerfielder Curtis Granderson. During our friendship you've taught us to whittle, lectured us on the buddy system, and provided everything our summer camp counselors never could. We thought we knew you. With the trade of Cameron Maybin we thought your demons on insecurity would be quelled and that you would finally buck up and enjoy a clean, Applebee's laden life. I didn't expect this...

http://www.freep.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20071121/SPORTS02/311210004/0/ENT01

You really have some explaining to do Curtis. I hope you'll do so soon.

I need to forget, I must move on. I need the synthesizer to do so. No other instrument so innately captures the human soul. Triumphs, failures, and small instances of life can't be captured by the French horn. When I want to concentrate, try, or think the best think to do is listen to a single keyboard loop over and over.

The List: The Best Things to Say to a Fed Ex Delivery Man
1. How much would it cost to mail myself to you?
2. I don't know about you but if I worked at Kinko's I imagine I would only eat at Subway. Do you like the Carne Asada?
3. When you're alone do you ever just stop and sniff the packages?
4. What's the best thing you ever delivered?

Using number 4 as a launch pad. IU am often bored. There is a general unwillingness to share details, anecdotes, and deeelights (grove is in the heart, my ass). When conversation reaches a standstill the first impluse shouldn't be to ask what TV shows someone likes. A much more applicable question is "what is your favorite thing in the world?" or perhaps "what are your 5 best memories?"

These are personal, these are intimate. Isn't that what conversation should be about. They also prove a good litmus test. If you ask someone their favorite thing in the world and they say "beer" or "gerbils" than you know that person is suspicious. Real suspicious.

What's your favorite thing in the world? Comment below.

well if that aint just some cold shit

After my last post, which periferally referenced Dr. Jonathan Zizmor (New York City's greatest dermatologist and, most probably, lover, cricket batter, and sushi chef) I decided that it was absolutely essential to cultivate a friendship with this bad-ass dude-bro, so that I might a) have a kick-ass wingman to trump any and all fratty assholes at fratty asshole bars downtown, b) enjoy the company of a fellow intellectual titan, and c) get some clear-as-the-plains skin via J-Ziz's (ostensibly) patented fruit acids technique.

So I rolled on over to the doctor's swank Upper West Side digs. Damn, who knew a dude could or would hook up two fireplaces, a woodworking shop, and an olympic-size swimming pool in the same room? Fuck you, it is so true--I found this exact thing when, upon arriving and being summarily dismissed by a servant I can only assume was fired the next day for the error, I hopped the wrought-iron fence and (removing my hat Elwood Blues style) punched a hole in the nearest accesible window.

Now, I'm not one to drink and tell--particularly because I usually fail to remember--but suffice to say I happened upon the good Dr. Zizmor and plied him with some of his finest Cognac. Within an hour, we were slapping backs and tellin' yarns like old college buddies. Within two hours, we were bitter enemies, and within two hours and twenty-six minutes, ol' Ziz looked in dire need of some of his own dermological care (on account of the battering I gave him via fisticuffs, if you catch my drift here).

Upon Zizmor's utilization of some sort of electronical security beacon (which I would call a "Pussy Whistle"), I made a quick exit, appropriating a passing bike messenger's trusty 15-speed steed. I spent the next 2 days and nights in the untamed area of Central Park known to bird watchers and hobos as The Ramble.

Now I have crept to a Starbucks on 110th Street, and, with a bit of the ol' Pterodactylus charm (which I inherited from my grandfather, Jorge--my father was a decidely uncharming man), managed to borrow a bit of time on a film student's laptop.

It is time that I went "on the lamb" as it were, time to pull my own Kerouac--though I, of course, never stooped to playing college football or living in Florida.

It's time to plunge into the future of art

I've been giving a lot of thought to speed posting lately, so here it is, my first attempt. a post in just under 5 minutes. This post will include whatever strikes my fancy over the next 5 minutes, so don't expect any narrative structure. At least not a legible one.

I live alone. Well I used to. An old buddy of mine, Prince Eternia moved in this past weekend. Actually decided to commandeer my couch would probably be a better way of putting it. I am excited though. His recent foray into grabbing hold of his destiny have made him a more interesting person. What else would you expect of someone who'd recently started traveling through time.

I hear him moaning from the bathtub. I can't quite decipher it but I'm guessing that he is asking me to remember to note that he has come to late 2007 in search of a wife. Ideally he'd like a girl named Alexandra. It'd also help if she is smaller than him. He is 5'11."

I was kicked out of a bookstore yesterday. My excitement over finding a 1976 paperback copy Updike's Rabbit, Run, was deemed inappropriate and I was asked to leave. I calmly slipped the book into my waste band and left with a simple, "Fuck all y'all. It's a bookstore there's nothing wrong with me being excited about finding a book here."

Time's running out so in keeping with recent history I'll end this shit, with a quick list:

Things I will do to Dartmouth next time I see him

1. Break his ankles and hit yet another pull up j on him.
2. Punch him in the face for being a philistine. And not the good kind.
3. Chastise him for his continued support of right wing religious cults
4. Mock him for his family's inability to defeat ebola. You need tougher genes.
5. Steal his honey like I stole his bike

Two Girls, Not My Cup of Tea

In this post I am being held hostage against my own will. Ummm, you can probably gather from the previous statement that this was not my idea. Gist of it is, I found some great works and in order to publish them I had to offer my peculiar insight on a subject that otherwise escapes my frame of reference.

While I find 2girls1cup.com to be the most tasteless, distasteless, flavorly dull website I've ever consumed I have to grant that they, with shit in all orifices, are at the very least using thgeir imaginations. While not the most daring fetishist I smile in chagrin at their daring, cadence, and sensual swagger. I have never been friends with a star athlete or Johnny Knoxville but I imagine that they have very similar attitudes about sensuality. This might not be a compliment but at the very least it lets me appreciate something I would otherwise vomit at.

This next post is by my good, introverted friend Daniel Lawlor. If he was a girl he would like to be tied up and we would be married by now. We plan to turn Homosexual and wed at the age of 25. I am not sure who will tie up who, but I promise to use square knots.

When I was in first grade, my teacher had placed a major focus for the year on spelling and reading. To this end, we were separated into different groups and whichever group had done the best in spelling that week would be allowed to select a special prize from a table she’d set up in the back of the room. Usually the toys were shitty dollar-store fare – a bouncy ball, a cheap plastic robot, whatever. But one week, in which I had the distinct good fortune of being in the best group, was the prize of all prizes: a bird’s nest. A pristine bird’s nest, sitting along among children’s books and colored pencils. Naturally, I had to have it. So when we all got up to line up in front of the prize table, I made sure I was first. Now, it didn’t matter what order we lined up in as the order in which we picked was purely at random, based solely on the teacher’s whims. But it didn’t matter – I had to have that bird’s nest, so I lined up first and kept my eyes on the prize the whole time. Maybe it was the gleam in my eye, maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t yet been chosen first, maybe it was just luck – but when she called my name first, it felt like fate to me. Striding up to that table and selecting the small brown bird’s nest, I must have been the happiest boy in the entire world. After I made my selection and returned to the line, the teacher casually asked “Who else wanted the bird’s nest?” And I wasn’t surprised a bit when every other kid in that line raised their hand immediately.

Continuing on the found poetry motif I have recently been innundated with Penis Enlargement emails. These are not the normal fair. Someone out there must know that I want my penis to be huge if only for hilarity's sake.

This next entry is from one Lillian Dailey

Greeting Hoofing

It is the size of ones c nlz oc eei k which determines success

Lilian Dailey

This next entry is from Roderick Chaney. I swear to God it is taken word from word. I think I owe it to them to order.

Compliments Kareem Virgins always whooped at me and even youths did in the urban comfort station! Well, now I whoop at them, because I took M mrx E sds G xoh A ny D lmy I xwn K for 6 months and now my p hiz en en is is immensely lo bu ng uby er than federal.

I do not know how to respond to this. Should I question them to prove it or should I immediately worship at the alter of their wisdom? Given such literate lingo and grasp of slang I can only hope that Compton has developed to the point of trying to scam my credit card number. Either that or Allen Ginsburg faked his death and finally found an applicable outlet. Fuck that, Ginsburg was a bottom and probably didn't care about his cock size. Brautigan. Richard Brautigan. You old Berkley hero of my Dad's legends. You of the horn rimmed glasses. You of the trout fishing brilliance. You of the imagination, guile, will, and flat out scary honest whimsy that makes my fucking ignorant heart ache at the mere mention of "Halloween in the Sea". Richard, do you want me to have a bigger penis? I doubt the pills will work but I'll do it for you. I'll do it immensely longer than federal.

Just Another Night at the Bar

American and Europe are different in many ways. One of those ways, is that in Europe it is much easier to find an internet cafe than it is in small town U.S.A. Granted this may be because most of my time was spent in Europe's metropolises but irregardless, it can be a drag getting access to the internet when you do not have a computer of your own.

Anyway although this absence is much shorter than previous ones, I apologize nonetheless. I have been wanting to write for past two days. What happened two days (actually, nights) ago, you might ask? Well it just so happens that me, Archibald Aurelius Samuelson the XLIII, was involved in my first ever bar fight.

Although I was in a bar I was not there to drink. In fact I was just there to eat free pretzels and watch a basketball game on the television. I am not really a basketball fan, but from time to time I like to attempt to tap into the zeitgiest of sports fans. It is a world I do not really understand, but one which seems to have such an astronaumical hold on so many others. Plus the town I was in is about as quiet as they come, so it was either that or another night of E.M. Forrester's company.

The game itself was actually quite exciting. The hometown team seemed to dominate for nearly the entirety of the game. Their star player, was phenomenal drifting from one end of the court to the other like a gazelle, occasionally pulling up to throw the ball in the basket. It was fascinating watching him out there, seemingly in complete control of the game. But things went awry in the final 30 seconds and around the 10 second mark the star player threw a savage elbow into the head of a player on the other team. The court turned to bedlam, as did the bar, and the player was ejected.

This set one of the bar's patrons into a particular fury. He went on an on about how the "refs were always stickin' it to us," knocking over his drink and a bowl of pretzels in the mean time. For some unbeknownst reason I saw this as a time to speak up, pointing out that this was not in fact a case of the referrees "sticking it to" him or his team, and in fact the star player deserved to be thrownout of the game for his violent action. Unsurprisingly this was not what he wanted to hear.

He immediately shot from the stool he was attempting to sit on and started thrashing out at me, with both hands. I am not by natured a fighter, so all I did was put my hands up and cover my face. It was a passive plan of action, but I feel it probably saved my face from a few punches. Eventually others in the bar attempted to pull him off of me, but just as it appeared the nights hostilies were over, he broke loose of their grasp and ran at me, screaming the most confusing of phrases.

"Taste my fuck!"

His last punch was a true wallop, for the next thing I knew it was five minutes later, and I was in the bars back room with the beautiful bartender (Sandy, I believe her name was), with a bag of frozen peas pressed against the entire right side of my face. I asked what had happened, and she answered as plainly as I could have hoped for at that time.

"You just got knocked out."

-AASXLIII

gettin' more from zizmor

Sometimes, a man has to saddle up, get licked on cheap vodka and expensive powder drugs, and then spend the rest of the weekend in bed. Yes, it takes a lot of courage to go to bed at 6am on Saturday and then stay in bed until Sunday--at which point you are permitted, by the rules and regulations of bravery, to crawl to the couch and watch Bringing Down the House twice through (you know what ages really well? Scenes where the characters communicate through Instant Messaging; gripping!). If you have the gusto, make a grilled cheese sandwich, and if you ain't yeller, wash it down with an ice-cold beer (call it a "brewski" if you think you can handle it).

Finally, as the climactic "fuck you, God", to an already very "fuck you"-esque weekend, resolve to grow a bitchin' pony-tail.

We really love the Lions

The most fulfilling thing in Sports is cheering for a doormat. Disappointment is constant but so is the potential. It isn't annoying or assholish to be a fan of the said team, but cute. It is fun to rifle through the star wideout's trash, stop in to offer draft advice, and almost get killed at opposing stadiums It also lends itself to dreaming. 

Happy Halloween

The Holidays bring family, parties, and the stealing of nativity scenes. Don't worry too hard though, the nativity scenes are only being borrowed until Easter wherein they are returned with a note reading "Keep the Faith and the Change - J.C." 

My family is a right wing Catholic family tinged with alcoholism and an inability to embrace black quarterbacks. I will always remember the Christmas I was allowed to pick the family activity and decided to spend the day with my homeless Uncle in the woods. This might have been the same Uncle who when driving near a river offered the bribe "If we drive into the river we'll meet Jesus faster", but that didn't stop us from spending Christmas Eve chasing a ferret around a fire. 

At Christmas parties I am only allowed to talk to my cousin with slight autism, a whistle, and felony charges. With that in mind I am trying to envision ways to get kicked out. 

The List

1. Bring a flask of Vodka and offer it to the Children as the blood of Christ. 

2. After the Pickle is found in the game "Find the Pickle" stubbornly protest that it is a cucumber. Soak pickle shaped ornament in brine 

3. Discuss my sister's fake lesbian wedding and how I think it's the right thing to do. Also, discuss this with a lisp while wearing an earring. 

4. Invent a new cousin from the body parts of already existing cousins. 

A Love of Blow Job Jokes

Certain things are meant for certain people. Listening to anything in Of Montreal's catalog I can only visualize patrons of Outback Steakhouse. 

With that in mind the upcoming film, Walk Hard seems destined for my father. An avid fan of rough humor, musical history, and over weight shirtless men, it seems as if John C. Reilly tapped into my father's subconscious and sucked ideas out with a straw. It seems this way also because my father has recently suffered brain damage and I need a scape goat. The scape goat is Hollywood. Paralyzed by the writer's strike they have undoubtedly decided to steal ideas from my father, thus paralyzing him. 

I'll still be wheeling him into the theatre on December 21st. However it won't be handicap accessible so he'll have to enjoy the film while covered in bruises. It won't matter, he can't feel. 

Here's a comic. Click to make it bigger. 

When you don't get their geography, read their map.

Fair or not, things hold connotations. We aren't thinking big here. We are thinking the opposite, which is to say that we're thinking small. Quark sized actually.   

Certain glimmers of detail harbor great truths. The quality of an awning is almost always indicative of how good a florist is. This is easy though, a classy awning proves they care about the garnish (the real bouquet standard bearer). These details go unnoticed at first but after enough experiences you begin to equate them with a certain something, which then becomes a standard. 

In the case of Comic Books, plastic is the great indicator. Strident, sterile organization screams a terrible signal at some, of which I am one. As a child I found my way into a fair amount of hobby shops. I'm not sure I liked them, I am doubtful that I ever appreciated their aesthetics, I only recall my lust for more and more Tony Clark rookie cards. In my brief forays I paid little mind to the section of the store reserved for Comic Books. I had no need for escape when Catholic School and Patrick Ewing posed such an interesting reality. Also, these sections were usually filled with fat guys.

 

As we get older, we usually change. These changes in philosophy and action aren't marked by revelation but interest (in the vast majority of cases). Some kids start to like Korn, later they become idiotic, and puke on top of your mother's garage onto downlookers below while wearing an LSU t-shirt. Some kids get into religion, then get into accounting. In a growing blight, some kids get into Comic Books, I mean REALLY get into Comic Books. This is usually followed by physical atrophy and a lifelong relationship with your first girlfriend. Though Christians argue otherwise, we at Hindenburg call these bad things. 

The connotation of Comic Books scares me. Thank heavens to betsy I find them repulsive. 

SpiderMan, SuperMan, Dr. Potato Boiler, Little Cotton Muncher, and all other super heroes sit in a universe so dynamic and adventurous that I can not relate it to my little world of Macrame. Further more i believe that the Comic book format does little to capture the details that provide both entertainment and resonance. Given the short attention span required to enjoy such a medium I seem a perfect fit. However, with simple statements and bare bones story lines I find the disjointed arrangement of this comic books more of a bastion to think about other things, rather than a separate form of entertainment. 

It isn't just comic books either. Comic strips, words with pictures, and any story driven series of drawings fail to provide any real spark. It doesn't feel right. It doesn't seem real. it is mortifying to admit that I once owned a book of Foxtrot Comics. Of course given the rules of everything, 10% of these are probably good. However, they don't change the game, they just provide proof that the game isn't pointless. 

Now for the hypocrisy. We're starting a comic. Based on my own adventures, anecdotes, and dreams these will be horribly done, crudely conceived, and a waste of your time. I have no idea why I am  doing this, but you can just assume that it's out of self loathing because you'll probably want to imagine me slitting my wrists after reading them . Fittingly I call them... My Stupid Life. 

Heaven of Las Vegas

Dear friends and lovers,

What a rambunctious time these couple of weeks have been. The morning after I last wrote you my world fell to pieces. I was attempting to extricate myself from Betsy's room after a night of sensuous kanoodling when she asked me if i loved her.

"Of course I do Betsy," I demurely replied as I scrounged about her room for my clothes, hoping to get back to my room before the morning bed check. "I love you like the moon loves the night."

I have replayed this sentence in my head about five billion times since that faithful morning, because sadly, this was not the answer my beloved was looking for. In fact it only proved to her that I would at some point prove to be as horrible a man as many others she had experienced, for you see--as she pointed out to me--the moon occasionally appears during the morning or very late evening when it is not fully night. She felt that by my saying this I was just stating that I would be unable to remain faithful to her.

Needless to say that was not--and is not--how I felt, but it was enough for her and before kicking me out of her room she informed me that our relationship, the one I had come to cherish so much, was done. As a man of the Cuban persuasion might say, we were finito.

I took the news as bad as you might expect. Within the hour I had cryed my heart out, packed up my T.S. Elliot collection and some clothes into a rucksack, and had hit the road. I have spent portions of these last couple of weeks hitching my way through Barstow, Reno, Eureka, and Eugene (and no Dartmouth I have not made stops in Nova Scotia, but maybe someday). Primarily I have been able to keep to myself in these cities, something which has been great.

As it stands now I do not know where I am headed and part of that excites me. Contrary to what Sergei wrote, I do not feel that I am headed back towards mother. My time at the center showed me that is not a stop on my path to Nirvana. Mother is helping me though. Just today I picked up her money order at one of this country's many convenient Western Union locations. She does not seem to be too worried about my wear abouts. Unlike father I feel she has faith in me. Faith that I can find my way. As for father I still have not found the appropriate time to let him know of where I am. I know he cares about me and I appreciate the help he so graciously bestowed upon me, but the time is not right yet. Maybe a month or two down the line when I do have more of a semblance of a plan of my own.

I plan to update you all on my life more over the next few months. I have wanted to write countless times these past couple of weeks, if only to let everyone know that I was safe, but I needed time to myself, time to figure things out. I was not--and to some extant still am not--ready to let anyone other than mother know where I am, but I am sure there will be clues here and there.

A good deal of the impetus for this blog was my own but sometime things get in the way of our intentions and stop them from coming to fruition. Nonetheless I apologize for this. I just have not been in the right mindset the two months that Bring Back the Hindenburg has been running, but I believe I am there now. Let us all hope that that belief is correct.

Regards,

AASXLIII