the toasted flatbread of victory

To quote my third favorite Aaliyah song, "it's been a long time." In the yawning gap since last we spoke, dear Hindenburgians, I have traveled to the frozen tundras of the West--and through the frozen tundras, sweet Hindenburgers, of my mind...

It all began while asleep in the booth of a Quizno's nestled deep inside the A Concourse of Denver International Airport. Due to global warming and extreme airline malfeasance, I was marooned inside this toasted-bread-smelling establishment within the year-round "snow caps" of DIA. (If I were a 1950s stand-up comedian performing in the Catskills, at this point I would make a remark about "D.O.A." followed by a rimshot. But I am not one.)

My thoughts, racing and whizzing with angry deeds of reprisal, slowly crystallized into a plan. I would make my way, barefoot, in the style of one of the Die Hards (I forget which one, but it's definitely not the first one, and definitely not "Live Free or," but I hope it involves Carl from Family Matters) (because Bruce Willis always does badass shit barefoot in those movies, as I recall), stealthy as a snow leopard (they are endangered), and secret myself aboard a Postal Serice jet.

In a series of super-awesome scenes involving judo, smart ass off-the-cuff quips, and a luggage conveyor belt, I made my way aboard a Christmas gift be laden vessel. The interior, pregnant with Holiday Spirit and sweaters on back order from L.L. Bean, was comfortable, if cold. I snuggled deep within a sack of letters the size of Andre the Giant, and slept, cocooned in other people's forethought and caring. (I myself did not send a Christmas card this year. I am lazy.)

But a troubling thought roused me from my partial slumber. Would it have been better, cooler, more unique, to have hidden myself in a Quizno's bread truck? Or perhaps disguised myself as the no-doubt lovable Quizno's mascot, whoever that may be, or--even better yet--as an actual, edible Quizno's toasted sandwich? This thought gnawed at me, plucked at my eyelids and flicked at my ears.

Why, I wondered. Why must I, yet again, imitate. Bruce Willis today; yesterday it was D.H. Lawrence, and the day before that, Daniel Day Lewis. I never used to have this problem. Eight, nine months ago, I was a dynamo. I spray painted the walls, I built farm animals from paper, plucked the hearts from adorable lambs and mounted them on stakes. Where has my vigor gone, my livelihood?

I must rediscover it, retrieve from whence it hath fled. At all costs; at all costs.

Rise, men, and become again impetuous!

Excited for Life

Do you know anyone who ever slipped on a banana peel?

This question occurred to me as I was walking to work today, eating a...wait for it...banana! In the not so distant past I played the role of a child in the latter quarter of the previous century. Like kids from this time period I watched a lot of cartoons. Because of this some of my most cherished memories are in two dimensions, and one of the ones that sticks out most is that of a character (make of them what you will; male, female, skinny, fat, tall, short, etc.) chasing after an elusive scoundrel until their right or left foot comes down on a conveniently discarded banana peel. What happens next is something we all remember. The character slides forward, a look of utter confusion in their eyes, and then launches up into the air end over end, flipping once or twice and finally coming down with a cloud of stars and a boom!

Sadly this memory is one that I have never seen replicated in real life, but I would like to someday. The thing is, like most of the things I came to believe while playing a child, I doubt there is much of a chance of it actually ever happening. It's a sad thing, but them's the breaks kid.

Fuck. I don't know why I wrote that.

In other news I'm still wondering if its better to be rock 'n roll or punk rock. Any thoughts? Normally I'd be on the side of punk rock, but in my advancing years I just don't know anymore. More and more it seems that rock 'n roll will allow me to do what I really want to do, get down and dirty. Which kind of girls age better? That's probably the better question.

Before I go rumor has it that Minxie's extended absence from the blog is more a result of surgery than wanting to spend time with his family for the holiday. It's all hogwash if you ask me. But those few of you that love Dartmouth, fret not. I hear he's coming back in a new and improved (and slightly more feminine) form.

Dear Coach Carter, thank you for your inspirational movie.

"You're not seriously going to wear that pink thing are you? You look like a fucking flamingo."

"I like it, it makes me feel safe. Why do your hands smell like feet?"

"What the fuck? Why do my...no they dont. And why the fuck are you smelling my hands. Get the fuck away flamingo hand smeller. You are such a child predator. Who the fuck are you anyway? Do i know you?"

What a fucking nightmare. I woke up with a hard jolt, lying face up in my bed with beads of sweat resting on my forehead. My legs were sweating and my heart was pounding like death would arrive at any second and steal my last breaths. And that would be that. Suffice it to say that there was no cloaked skeletal creature with a sickle in my room that night. Just me and my demons.

I never had dreams. None to remember anyway. Nothing that stirred me like the sight of a middle aged man in a pink poncho smelling my hands. I felt that my dream was an omen since it was such a rare occasion for such vivid images to appear in my head. I got up and washed my face. 5:02 in the AM. The water felt soothing running off my chin and back down the sink. My body had taken on a case of the cold shivers and the warm water was quite welcoming.

I sat on the edge of my bed and rubbed my temples, trying to purge any and all images of the nightmare from my brain. 5:09 AM. I didn't have to be awake for another hour and a half. i discreetly smoked a cigarette out the window from inside my room. There was still no light outside save a dim shimmer of the moon. The sun would be up in about an hour and life would be filling the streets like water in a basin. I dropped the butt of my cigarette in an empty beer can and laid back down to bed. 5:17 AM.

My eyes would not draw closed. Perhaps I was too shocked by the lingering memory of the dream or perhaps my body simply did not require more recharging. I laid on my back staring into the ceiling trying to manifest some more sleep. 5:21 AM. My eyes finally began to shut and I could feel my body drifting into sleep mode. I thought of soothing meadows and birds sailing across the sky. Anything but pink flamingos or hands or feet or raincoats.

CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK. The unmistakable sound of shots fired through a handgun. At 5:30 in the morning. In fucking urban middle class white town. Where there is not so much as a car accident or petty theft. Fucking gunshots. Glorious.

I drug my ass half awake to the kitchen window and spied out. There was already a crowd of people outside hovering around a silver Volkswagen Jetta. The driver's side window was shattered and a limp body lay inside.

Sirens echoed off of the budding horizon. More people made their way out to the street to gawk at the madness. I went back into my room and smoked a cigarette on top of the covers, blowing smoke rings into the ceiling and waiting for the next link in what I imagined would be a long string of shit for the day.

Breaking the Mold

Dearest Friends and Faithful Readers,

The last month has been a whirl wind, I will try to catch you up.

I ditched Eugene. I know I failed to name the sad sack of a city earlier, but that was because I was afraid of father coming after me. Besides the fact that I am no longer there, this is something that I no longer fear as father and I have recently made amends.

Eugene was shitsville. I hate to be crude, but there is no other way around it. It rained, it was cold, the girls were prudes, everyone was a "hippy" (quotes for a reason, mind you!), and the Mexican food was nowhere near as good as Sergei's friend made it out to be. I also spent much of my two weeks there in a barbaric malaise, which is what I will attribute my sudden liking of cheap supermarket paperbacks (Dean Koontz, I take back every kind word I ever uttered about you!).

Things could have been different in Eurgene, but they weren't. The physical abuse I received early in my visit should have been viewed as a sign of things to come. It was not because of my apparent attraction towards acting foolishly. I am a buffoon from time to time, I cannot make excuses for myself, where none exist.

I finally left town when I came to the realization that my host had no intention of being more hospitable. Instead she wanted to analyze Mary Higgins Clarke and try to figure out why all the boys she liked were so terrible. I have a suggestion for you, it might be that you are unwilling to look past the Oregonians that surround you. Spice up your life with a little variety! I find it hard to placate someone who cannot see what is right in front of their dimwitted eyes!

A quick aside, I fully realize that I am using more exclamation points than is usual, but that is because of my new vigorous approach to life. Now that I have extricated myself from both rehab and Eugene, I have come to the conclusion that it is as magical as some of you have made it out to be!

Two days after leaving Eugene I found myself without a cent and in Portland, an unwilling to prostitute my body yet again I decided it was time to call one of my homes. My first instinct was too call mother of course, but for once I decided to follow the passionate implorings of so many of my friends and not crawl back to mother's nest. If there is one thing that rehab taught me it's that mother was the cause of quite a few of my problems. She refused to let me grow up, and when I was with her I was more than happy to stay the baby she wanted me to be. At some point though I must become a man, and this seemed like the time to do it. So I called father, and looked for help from the man I've spent the last seven years running from.

Father set up a ticket and hotel room for me and we met the next morning in Seattle. After spending a week there, we ventured up to Canada and Vancouver, to spend time with father's old Northwestern roommate, Chaz Gentry.

Chaz and my father's lives have both seemed to mirror one another perfectly, with the exception of Chaz's impotence stopping him from having any spawn of his own. Also Chaz's choosing to go back to his native Canada, rather than staying in the States (as he calls them).
With no familial connections other than a wife in Toronto who he has been separated from for the past nine years, Chaz was quick to invite us both to spend the holidays with him. And that is exactly what we have done.

Father is set to return to Southern California next Friday and had asked me to return with him. I politely declined and told him that it is the right time for me to grow into my destiny as a man. After a cigar of thinking he came around to my way of thinking, and along with Chaz we agreed that I would stay with him in Vancouver for at least a couple of months. I will try to look for a job during this time, but neither of them want me to put too much pressure on myself, so father will provide me with a decent sized allowance in the interim. They have both told me that this is my chance and I must take it, something which I agree with completely.

It is time to become my own man!

-AASLXIII

To Whom It May Concern

Greetings Dear Friend,

It is with immense sadness that I must lay this letter upon you. You see there is a handsome outstanding debt in my book next to your name. As we are currently in a recessive state around here the time has come for debts to be collected and owned up to. You will find a bill enclosed with your outstanding debt noted. If you see yourself unable to fill this receipt please do not respond to this note. Instead, sit back in a comfortable chair and prepare for a friendly visit. Mind you, any attempts to flee or hide will be met with swift strokes from a well worn sledge hammer bearing the title, "Payment." Your cooperation is appreciated and any means to save your own hide will be shined upon. Please leave all funds in an unmarked, sealed envelope at the end of the counter at Plum's Coffee Shop. Do not speak to anyone. Hopefully we will not have to discuss the matter further. Until we do business again...

Cheers & Good Tidings,
Jasper A. Jowls

Bowing Down Where It Is Whole Heartedly Deserved

Standard Hindenburg Preface: We here at Hindenburg dabble in diners and sling shots at those who deserve it. Usually Dennis the Menace. He really is a menace. A M.O.M. Man on a mission. Fucking up Mr. Wilson's life is his jihad. It is to him, what Islam is to Osama. Five times a day he prays to the idea of arsoning Mr. Wilson's plush fuck pad. "Fuck" was used as an adjective. Fuck pads do not yet exist, although the liberator stakes a hearty claim to the throne.

Note: New goal in life. Invent a fuck pad.

Our goal is undefined but we seem to be after beauty and new mythologies. (That's right, I analyze). The problem with beauty is that many instances of "big greatness" have been discovered. We will not bore you with talks of how great the Grand Canyon is, although Curtis Granderson might. He bats lead off you know. What does that say about a person's mental aptitude?

Anyhow, our search for beauty and mythology often occurs in the nooks and crevices of the lives we live and the lives we make believe. However, sometimes we notice something so good under our collective noses that it is a wonder that we have never expunged on the subject before.

Preface is donezo.

I was walking home drunk after a night of awkward conversations and Pat Benetar karaoke. I wasn't that drunk but nostalgia made me even slower. 5 beers isn't much to me anymore, nor should it be with the role model of Benny Franklin. A year ago to date I made the same walk. I was drunk, fucking wasted should have been 'ludes drunk. An ex-girlfriend punched me. I couldn't find my way out of a grocery store parking lot so the Cops gave me a ride home. Three best friends then watched me vomit. It was great fun.

Since I wasn't too drunk tonight I paid attention. To a dollar store. I have always found safe haven in these vestiges of cheapness and watered down cleaning solutions. I never realized the brilliance behind the scheme because I don't really appreciate commerce. I am not opposed to globalization and big business. I don't appreciate commerce because it has done such a good job at solidifying itself as a civic institution that it is there. It doesn't have to vie for our attention.

Sadly, we care about stores. It isn't sad that we care. It is sad that the people sneaking into wallets for our dollars no longer attempt at capturing our imaginations. Gone are the days of rampant attention whoring. No more free hot dogs, no more special events. Bill Veeck put a midget up to bat in the first half of the last century and we are still talking about it. I understand that some banks used to give away free guns for opening an account. With the exception of Minor League baseball (featuring a descendant of Veeck), car dealerships, and furniture stores, everyone else just wants our precious precious bucks.

Dollar stores offer many needs, impulse satiation, and enough glittering silliness to rob us of so many dollars. That is their gambit and they do it like gangbusters. With a static stock of products they are always a new and exciting experience. There is always something new there. It won't be worth a dollar but what the fuck is a dollar to us anyway. I spent six dollars on a beer tonight because the beer lady said it smelled like manure and that it might make me vomit. What do I care if they jack up the price of a Charleston Chew by 40 cents? By giving us something new and otherworldly convenience they are able to rob us. Psychologically we are getting a deal, but the fact is that we are paying three times what the product is worth. We are getting exploited on every front and it feels fucking terrific.

Look at your average dollar store. They are impressive in scope, size, and lighting. They are great at what they do. Like Quizno's except it doesn't feel as close to dirtiness. With fluorescent lighting and unprepared workers they offer a cornucopia of potential and a slew of things we would not find otherwise.

Things I have recently bought at a dollar store include a book by Al Roker on parenting, a woman's belt with rivets, medical wrist bands, and four hula hoops. Some might be bargains but no one would buy the literature of Roker if it weren't a dollar. It was outdated as hell. He was fat on the cover. The title was Don't Make Me Stop This Car. The cover photo was shot in the back of a minivan.

They operate on the uselessness we surmise the dollar to have. They are unaffected by inflation or other economic woes. They are always Dollar Stores, not $1.31 stores or $0.79 stores. They give us the dollar as a given, a certain certainty in a time of uncertainty. The same is also true of Ninety Nine Cent stores, though they are messier.

Where did the idea for a Dollar Store come from? What is their evolution? They've been here my entire life. I can only imagine that some drunk Texas Billionaire stared at a dollar bill with pure hate and came up with the idea. "People don't care about this, let's prey on them".

For your scheme we salute you.

"I got up in such a hurry, I'm still stuck inside my dreams"

A few weeks short of two years ago I packed up all the stuff I could fit into a suitcase and a back pack full of books and took off for half way around the world (or if you want to be precise 3.78/8 of the way) to further my intellectual betterment courses (a.k.a. to attend school).

Like most endeavors I’ve undertaken in my life, I was quite unprepared for living in another country. When I boarded the plane that was bound for my new home country, the only thing I knew was the name of the my school and that even after flying for 12 hours a night long train ride to the treacherous north would await me. See the thing is, I could have studied up, had an actual idea what I was getting myself into, but I chose not too. Actually I was too apathetic about things to actually make a choice, the only real reason for me not reading up on the situation I was about to embark on was due more to laziness than anything else. The only thing I knew was that I was in for a change of scenery, and that was really the only thing that I cared about.

Although this is a recipe for disaster 97% of the time, things worked out. I finally shook things up, breaking out of the stupor that had plagued me much of the previous two and a half years. It was good for me. I traveled like I never had before, I watched it snow ash on a unforgiving-ly cold beach, I got groped by a stalker in a night club, I drank brandy from an Eiffel Tower shaped bottle found at the bottom of a dumpster, and broke my ankle. Oh yeah I also met Jimmy and some other people who flipped my shit. If I were better at cuttin’ to the chase I would have just written that I lived life, maybe for the first time ever.

I bring this up for no particular reason, other than it’s cold and overcast out and it reminds me of the place I called home for the first half of 2006. This whole thing is of course viewed through the awesome colored glasses sometimes referred to as nostalgia, but maybe there’s a reason for the happy go fun memories I have of life across the ocean.

If you couldn’t tell already, I specialize in unreliable narrative.

they soft like the cartons with the eggz in 'em

Fuck Jack Kerouac. Fuck the Beat Poets, Beatniks, and "We Got The Beat" (The Beets, Douglas Funny's favorite band, are still totally cool with me). Somewhere in Nebraska, standing on the side of a windswept highway--okay, there was actually little in the way of wind; I just wanted to romanticise--I took a long, hard look at the cluster of concrete blocks in the distance that would resolve, at some nearer point, into a shopping mall. And I said to myself, "I don't want this." Who was I kidding? I'm not the type for hard-won insight into the plight of every-day America. I'm much more interested in hard-drinking in the finest and/or most overwrought hotel bars of the Eastern seaboard.

So I'm back. Last night, propped against the bar of Blanco's (an establishment so exclusive they don't have a phone, or even a door (you have to climb in through a window)) in a bespoke-tailored suit made personally for me by Hedi Slimane (Hedi's my boi), I felt at peace. I felt as though I had gotten back to my roots. My roots are best nurtured by a bottle or two of Hendrick's and sleeping in until 6:30pm every day, and I was a fool to think otherwise. I shouldn't have let something as silly as a dust-up with New York's finest dermatologist upset me; after all, it was just last month that I was briefly married to New York's finest neurosurgeon, and this past summer I challenged the city's most highly regarded OBGYN to a duel. Guess who won.

But my life is not all 17th-century gold-plated duelling pistols and women doused in Champagne. Sometimes I prefer sabers, or, on rare occasion, scimitars.

"We had to sit down on skateboards just to make it down the hill"

I slashed the fuck out of my hand today.

Dearest Prince Eternia does not like crusts on his sandwiches, but because the entirety of time is constantly on his mind he cannot be bothered to remove them himself. Since I'm guessing the weight of the cosmos is not that easy to carry on ones' shoulders I've been doing the cutting while Prince has been sleeping on my floor. As one can probably guess today I managed to cut my hand while trimming his sandwich to a more manageable size. It sucks but if my wound helps prevent the time and space from collapsing in upon itself, I figure it is well worth it. Plus now I can say I actually have a real life war wound.

***

By the by anyone else remember when slash meant to pee?

For some reason the name of the band Chromeo makes me think of Chef Boyardee style Italian food.

While few people would mistake me for someone who makes a big deal about all things Christmas-y, I am quite a fan of Christmas specials. I loved them when I was young and I love them now as a struggling Russian writer on the verge of vagrantdom.

I also like year-end-best-of-lists.

The combination of decade skipping and the holidays has slowed my writing as of late. I've decided to dedicate much of my time at work over the next two days to getting some writing done though. I'll try to translate this time into some of my patented universe altering posts. Hopefully this idea won't be a shit load of hot air but as with all things we'll see how that goes.

In Search of the Great Late Paragon

When this post is finished I am eating some Beans and Rice. You can't stop me from eating like a Spaniard.

To wit (and to your wonder) I am unsure as to what a paragon is. When pressed at some drunken definition fest I would sputter out three syllables and collapse in a state of semi shock. Also, since I am sputtering you can be sure I've had more than my fill of the filler. Drunk as I am hypothetically, paragon is still an important word to me. Among all my lingo it is among the most said and is quite possibly the most cherished. I think it roughly means "something that is emblematic of something else". That's close enough for me. I don't want you to look it up or clue me in. The way I have come to know or understand paragons is mine alone and I feel dirty at the mere fathom of sharing it with the likes of you.

There have been paragons everywhere lately. Lighthouses lighting the way to a more amusing day and an anecdote to later be told on this blog is enough, but not for paragons like these. These paragons are "something that is emblematic of something else". They signify almost all I know and everything about me. They are why I get up in the morning. They are why when I lose the remote I decide to stop watching TV.

The New Hindenburg took a trek to San Diego last weekend to watch the proud Detroit Lions take on a football team that is actually good. The outcome was 52-14, jalapeños were eaten, we looked Russian, and paid our only attention to the Los Angeles Times we smuggled in our moth balled sweat pants. It would have been a waste of an afternoon, 52 dollars, and 52 LaDainian Tomlinson points if not for the heroic antics of Pete.

Early in the first quarter the smell of beer wafted up from the aisle and tickled the tips of our noses. Pete, a grizzled old man in wrap around shades and a beaten flannel, shuffled down the aisle another beer in hand. He stopped and held an innocent conversation with friends. Then he fell. Then he rolled. He kept rolling. Pete rolled over six rows of Charger fans in a garish display of Belushian acrobatics. Along the way he flipped, somersaulted, and crowd surfed as if Fred Durst himself had ordered it.

It could have been over. With a normal person, not a paragon, a simple gesture could have come and gone like a Spring Rain. We should have known better. Most people would stop after one row. They would not be so lost in the moment that they would fall almost forever. We saw the fall, followed the path of the beer trail, and thought it believable that he could roll 16 more rows and off the balcony. Like a Spring Rain it brought flowers. For the rest of the game Pete sat unmoving in his seat. We thought he could be dead. We also considered that the force of the fall had made Peter shit himself. He was worshiped like a god but wasn't ready to revel. He sat there ashamed. Ashamed for an entire half holding onto both armrests and trying not to move. A young buck asked to shake his hand and Pete simply shook his head "no". He wasn't going to showboat, he was simply going to tiptoe out of the row while holding the hand of everyone out of his fear.

Pete is our paragon of showmanship.

You don't know our next paragon, but he assures us that you will. Like so many small friendships we met on a plane. Houston to Detroit the mother of all drab flights. So boring they didn't even do security checks because no one can manage to give a damn.

His name: Joe Blow
His education: Part of high school
His future: Rap Mega Titan Force of Nature

The plane was empty. We could sit where ever we wanted. Joe Blow decided to sit next to me. He shook my hand and said we had the same name, even though we don't.

Next question: Do you like music?
My Question: Yes.

He hands me a CD player. Not an IPOD, a zune, but a big plastic disc spinner. Clunky and irrelevant, I would have been jealous if I were ten. He then played a homemade CD of himself rapping.

I am going to the top, yo
So don't try to stop, bro
To the top, to the top
I won't stop, I won't stop
T and A is in my DNA

These are actual lyrics from the one and only Joe Blow. Joe explained his rap strategy to me from this point on. Never played a show, won't play a show. Instead he will sell CD's from the trunk of his car.

Next Question: What book you reading?
Next Answer: Rabbit Redux by John Updike
Next Retort: Oh. I thought it might be Who Moved My Cheese?

Tired as I was I fell asleep on the plane. I got woken up with a mother fucking punch in the mother fucking arm. I turn and Joe Blow is smiling at me.

Joe Blow: You want some cereal.
Then we ate cereal together.

This would have been fine and enough for him to become the stuff of legend. When he left the plane he got off with his Mom, onward to attend his Uncle's funeral. He left me and our friendship behind but he did give me one last nugget of brilliance.

The back of his jacket said "Joe Blow".

Joe Blow our Paragon of Promotion

all i ever wanted

Dear Santa,

This year, I think it's finally time that you fulfill my life-long wish, and transform me into a cool-ass little mexican home-bro with a sweet little mustache.

You know what I mean: those tried-and-true motherfuckers that rock worn button-ups and skinny pants (but "cowboy skinny" not "hipster-bitch-panic!-at-the-disco skinny"). And they have a sweet, pencil thin mustache perched atop their mouth, driving their virility status up to somewheres 'round 200, easily trumping the most macho-est lumberjack even while they're just chillin' on the corner, smoking hand-rolled Brazilian cigarettes and sippin' on lukewarm beer from a can.

Come on Santa, don't play me on this; you never got me that Ghostbusters playset when I was 8, and I totally wanted it.

You snow-eating, reindeer-whipping bastard.

Love, Jimmy

P.S.--I once encountered the man below in a stupid-ass bar, and, spitting at the feet of their stupid-ass "rules", I smuggled in a black-top Sparks in my pants and gave it to Spank Rock, and bade him drink from it, and be merry.

P.P.S--The picture above isn't meant as an illustration what I'm talking about, Santa. I just like it. So quit being so literal; Jesus Christ, nobody likes an anal-retentive asshole with eating disorder.

Cuz All You Copy Cat Bitchez Copy Me All Day

2007 will go down as the year that I finally embraced hip-hop.

If you know me this statement might come as a little bit of a shock. In fact the most pretentious thing I've ever said was hip-hop related, when I told a past sweetheart that my love for hip-hop wasn't some, "white boy novelty bullshit." I mean I've always loved hip-hop, but never like I have this year. Before this year hip-hop had been something I listened to in stages, two weeks at a time sprinkled throughout the year. This year though, it all suddenly became essential to my livelihood.

See the thing is despite the color of my skin and the quality of my upbringing hip-hop is sort of tailor made for me. I'm all about hyperbole, shootin' the shit, and awesomeness (see Murs, Ghostface, and pretty much any other MC you can think of). These are three things that hip-hop reeks of. On top of this, because of some of the inherent weaknesses of hip-hop production, producers have often had to fuck with their music to make it sound fresh, trying shit no traditional musician would even dream of. I've heard beats built off of the bouncing of a ping pong ball (Anti-Pop Consortium), dance-y shit that's actually cool (Spank Rock), and undescribable dirtiness (Clipse's "Trill"). This of course equals a lot of weird sounding shit, and being weird myself this just happens to be the kind of shit I really dig. In summation hip-hop let out the olive branch long ago and tried to embrace the fuck out of me, I for some reason turned my back and looked elsewhere.

This year I followed Pharoahe Monch's lead and finally embraced the light and honestly I'm not going to lie the whole years been amazing. If I were one to make lists (and I am) I'd easily say at least half (if not more) of my 10 favorite albums of this year would be hip-hop albums.

The early part was spent enjoying late 2k6's release of Clipse's Hell Hath No Fury (yes it was a 2k6 album, but I kept enjoying it well into 2k7, and as I said elsewhere on Bring Back the Hindenburg nothing represents basketball to me like "Trill"), finally coming to a more than superficial appreciation of Ghostface, and mentally flipping my shit over Spank Rock. But all of that was completely overshadowed by the amazing Clipse show I peaked at in February. Regardless of my feelings towards hip-hop, I've always been hesitant towards live hip-hop shows. Clipse showed me that if its possible to do hip-hop right live and turned in probably the most intense live performance I saw all year.

The middle six months of the year were spent converting to the church of Lil' Wayne. I'd always though of Weezy F. Baby as someone who I could appreciate and respect (in large part because of his prolificness) but never recognized him as the truth speaker he really is ("I need a bitch that can fuck right, cook right," really is there anything more genius than that). Although lacking a proper release this year, Lil' Wayne's mixtapes have had as much impact on my life as any music I've ever listened to. I know this is something that has been reiterated constantly by all of us who matter here, but Lil' Wayne really is one of Bring Back the Hindenburg's godfathers (and maybe it's most important). Overshadowed completely but worth noting was the release of Dizzee Rascal's Maths + English. While no where near Weezy's level, Dizzee again proved his worth and made me all the more sad that he might still be caught in obscurity's grasp. I pray that is not prove to be the case.

Even as the Lil' Wayne releases began to dry up the quality of 2k7's hip-hop didn't wane. The transition from late summer to autumn was marked by my (and pretty much everyone else I respected) repeated listening to Kanye's Graduation. Then there was the rediscovery of MF Doom and how awesome he could be and who can forget the amazing performance by Spank Rock at the otherwise shitty Neighborhood Festival. But as if that wasn't enough the year comes to a close with Ghostface's The Big Doe Rehab and Wu-Tang's 8 Diagrams, which despite somewhat lukewarm reviews is completely flipping my shit in every way possible. The production is atypical and out of this world in all the best ways and I suddenly have renewed respect for Mr. George Clinton and Method Man (dude, I'm almost able to forget about those Meth and Red years).

This thing sort of spiralled out of control about 400 or 500 words ago, so I'll bring things to a close with this: Hip-hop matters more to me now than it ever has, and I'm alright with it. In fact I'm thankful for it. Thank you 2k7, you're the best.

P.S. I hope 2k8 proves to be even better. It could be especially if Tha Carter III, new Spank Rock (more Amanda Blank as well, please), and the Cool Kids prove to be as awesome as they could.

Why do I need a degree?

I don't know why I took this class. hell, I don't even know why I'm in this school. My dream of piloting a blimp doesn't hinge on a great deal of knowledge. It hinges on the ability to sneak on a Carnival Vessel and hijack the shit, kamikaze style. In my fantasies this will also double as my honeymoon. High Crime at high seas, could anything be more romantic? 

I am currently enrolled in an online class through the University of Phoenix. I thought it'd be like an Israeli Medical School, just pay and wish the days away, weeks later there is a degree with your Jewish name on it. (Is there such a thing as Jewish names?). This logic seemed infallible at the time. Shaq got a Master's from University of Phoenix, how hard can it be? Shaq probably tried though. As aloof as he may be he doesn't seem lazy. A lazy person wouldn't masquerade as a cop. They would moonlight as a security guard. I'm lazy. So lazy that I haven't been to my correspondence course in over a month. That was a joke. Lighten up. 

In a cruel twist of fate my Holocaust class is having it's final tomorrow. I have been provided the essays in advance. This has not been a help. Follow me as I attempt to study. 

Part B- Essay 

1. The "Final Solution" took place more or less in three stages. What measures were taken against the Jews in each stage, how did they change, and how did each stage follow from the previous one? 

     Through many cultures in a variety of junctures in History, the Jewish people have long been used as a scape goat. Perhaps it is no coincidence that the term "scape goat" came from a Jewish tradition of placing blame on a goat, smacking it with a paddle, and letting it run away in hopes it will drag the problems along with it. Though the thing I do best is lie, I am not lying now. My 11th grade Sociology teacher, Ms. Cranfield taught me all about this. I remember her best for her strict attendance policies, fancy automobiles, and the fact that she came to my graduation party and gave me a twenty five dollar gift certificate to Best Buy. As a rule of thumb, I try to stay an optimist. it is hard to be an optimist while thinking about Genocide. this is part of the reason why I am ignorant and day dreaming in class. the other reason is because sometimes I think about Unicorns. 

     In post World War I Germany, Jews were taking on an abundance of blame. Blamed for the Armistice and ensuing loss of national pride, a target was placed upon the Jewish people. The Holocaust culminated in the presence of efficiently engineered death camps but it found its origin in the early days of the Nazi party. It is tough to think that something this horrible would be so coldly calculated, so rooted in the imagination of one time. It is even tougher to think that similarly terrible circumstances are occurring all over the world, even now, after we have been already been shocked and awe by the presence of atrocity. It is more awful, still, to think of the myriad of ways it could have been prevented and how government economic interests are taking precedence over human life. it is much easier to think about building a bird house. Just think, a family of homeless birds will have a safe, cozy home for the winter. maybe it will be so warm that they won't have to migrate south for the winter. Their little wings will be so strong and rested! 

    The first phase of the "Final Solution" began in 1933 with the Nazi rise to power. Jews were stripped of legal rights via state sponsored racism. There were also economic boycotts of Jewish businesses and there was coerced immigration, even though it was getting more and more difficult for them to leave. They were removed from politics and weren't allowed to own property. Sterilization laws were also put into effect in 1933. During this period the Jews were subjected to escalating violence, culminating in the Kristallnacht. These are the basics of the first phase. To avoid any detail is not a cop out, it would be crippling to do so. 

      The second phase began when Germany invaded Poland and World War II began. A system of containment was considered for the Jews. One of this plans was the idea of sending them to Madagascar. They didn't go through with this plan, instead they opted for something much worse. You can see examples of this second phase in films such as The Pianist. Movies about "The Final Solution" have more guts then I do. You should probably just watch them. They are always directed by directors of significance, the Holocaust film is becoming a bulwark of many top directors and a good bet for Oscar recognition. 

     The third phase was... Ms. Cranfield used to take vacations to Europe with a group of other history teachers. I'm sure they could tell you all about it.  

The End. 

We've been controversial lately haven't we? 

THE LIST - Why NewHindenburg has gotten so damned muckraking 

1. Outrage over the writer's strike and not enough outlets

2. Eggnog binge

3. Went deaf, can't hear criticism. 

4. Sold our blog to Charlie Ward. 

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.

beastly terminology

As I've been riding the rails these past weeks (and, by "riding the rails" I of course mean secreted in the cab of a Wal-Mart/Sams Club semi-truck, languidly reclined atop a pile of recently unpackaged Tickle Me Extreme Elmos), I've been fantasizing a lot. Given that this trip itself is, thus far, a fantasy that has yet to live up to my expectations--it is hard to connect with quaint salt-o-the-earth American folk while doing 70 in a humid, windowless cab on the Interstate--I need something to fill my bored and beleaguered head. Thusly:

Three people Lil Wayne wants to smoke three blunts with:
1) Oscar de la Hoya
2) Bill Gates
3) Tom from Myspace

Three people I want to smoke three blunts with:
1) Lil Wayne
2) Gabriel Garcia Marquez
3) Tom from Myspace

People I no longer want to hang out with after seeing them in The Golden Compass:
1) Daniel Craig
2) Little British kids

People I still want to hang out with, despite their involvement with The Golden Compass:
1) Sam Elliott
2) Any and all armored polar bears

Television shows I pretend to love but secretly hate, or pretend to hate but secretly love:
1) The Hills

Things I like to mix with vodka:
1) Tonic
2) Sparks
3) Cranberry juice cocktail
4) Orangina
5) More vodka
6) Rice Chex