Say "Yeah Dog" In A Slightly High Voice

Detroit 24 16 .600 - 15-5 9-11 218 179 +39
Kansas City 21 21 .500 4 14-10 7-11 187 179 +8

The Detroit Tigers make all young men feel like Lady Gaga. A few days ago, I think I was on a couch, someone told me that Lady Gaga was my age. I think the person in question was female, though I can't quite remember who. (In all honesty: I was quite drunk. JUST KIDDING :P ) I argued with myself over which smiley face to use before settling on the smiley with his tongue out because I have a quite major problem with drooling. In my private quarters, I droll through life, a spittoon permanently affixed to the nether regions of my face.

The problem with my Dog has persisted, prompting my Mother to converse with the Dog as if my Dog were her Mother. She offered the Dog Xanax today. She didn't take it. If Christmas 2006 taught me anything it's: Don't let your sister get the Dog drunk. Despite the ebullient affects of similar medications on the Hoopster, I refuse to allow my Dog to be medicated.

In the basement of my home, in the corner of a crawl space, a small man lives. He plays the lute daily between the hours of 10-11am. At 2 pm prompt, he emerges to request half a can of SpaghettiO's. If I oblige him, he'll play the song of my choosing. After 6 cans (and twelve servings!) of Franco Amerrrrrrican's best he is proving quite adept at the Traveling Wilburys catalog. When I am stressed I consult with the man over my latest project, writing a play about professional wrestling. He assures me "Put a goat in it and everything will be just fine." If you say so Lazarus. That's the name inscribed on his lute. He said he didn't know his name. I did him the favor of scrawling "Lazarus" on his lute with a wood handled buck knife. He seems quite happy with the moniker, going so far as to serenade me with "Dirty World". I told him they're singing about a car as if it were a woman. He played a low mournful note, indicating that Bob Dylan was singing about a woman unfortunately born with a muffler and rear axle.

The things you can learn from crawl spaces.

I Paid $120,000 and All I Got Was This Lousy Diploma: Postmodernity Post-Graduation

As countless Classes of 2009 commence (my own included), I've found myself with a growing pit in my stomach and a constant feeling of nausea at the possibility of pure freedom. The conflict of the graduated is one between the limitless possibility of the next 50 years combined with a bright eyed earnestness that will no doubt fade in the next 5, and a kind of guilt in letting a perfectly good college degree (a B.F.A. no less!) go to waste with frivolous thoughts of "changing the world" through "eco-nazism" or "living on a boat and totally making a movie about it." And so, to show exactly what the Class of 2009 intends to do (but mostly to prevent this from coming Joel's Personal Blog of Detroit Thoughts), I'm going to blog.

There are, as so many have said, but in so many permutations, only two kinds of people in the world. There are those who, when faced with real, bona fide freedom, welcome it with tenacity and optimism. Those are the true Americans, the pioneers that will change the world, and I feel I am privileged to know at least a few of these kinds of people. And then there are those who cower in the shadows of the familiar when the towering challenge of personal liberty looms over them. I say those, but really I mean "me" because if there is anything I've learned from graduating college, it's that I wish I had never graduated college. The weight of educational life has been lifted, and the weight of the diploma has replaced it. College is an excuse to have the purpose of a goal that in reality is hardly more than somebody saying "Yeah, this kid's alright. You can give him a job if you want." Many people either see this fact and ignore it, or are in fact completely oblivious to it, and these moronically heroic souls find perfectly acceptable lives in what others may deem to be meaningless drone-producing desk jobs. That said, if you are one of these souls who can take the diploma with a smile and say "Yes, I'll gladly pay you a vast sum of money for a piece of paper with my name on it that actually no longer even guarantees me a middle-class existence after I walk across this stage," then perhaps this post is not for you. Or maybe it's precisely for you. I suppose it depends on your perspective.

While I'm attempting to make this conflict a universal trial of the Class of 2009, I can only speak of my own experience as a film student, and hopefully it's thematically relevant to all the other schools and disciplines that claim to be just as important. You see... there's this little thing called postmodernism. And having been bombarded with it for four years (and probably even further back than that), I find it increasingly difficult to let go of it in the post-graduate world. Is it okay for me to be whoring myself, selling a personality that isn't necessarily my own, just for an opportunity to be rejected (or even worse, accepted) by someone whose opinion I hold no stake in? Am I the go-getter in the most zealous sense of the word, heading into the Real World with a chip on my shoulder and something to prove? Or am I the slacker who looks down upon the automatons who come out of college thinking they're going to change the world, while I go get an ironic job as a taxi driver? Or am I the guy who cashes in on being the slacker who looks down on the automatons by making a hit reality show that ironically follows the slacker who ironically became the taxi driver and is now the star of a hit reality show? These are the things that keep me up at night, but then I remember that Larry David was a taxi driver before he made Seinfeld and I feel comfortable with my choice of in fact doing the only thing I came out of college really knowing how to do--drive a taxi.

It's impossible to tell if the cynical approach is the right one for this particular conflict, one that quite literally determines my (our) future. The carrot of limitless possibility and bright-eyed earnestness sure looks a helluva lot better than the stick of becoming a soulless "Hollywood" "player" out of a sick feeling of guilt over letting a lifetime of debt go to waste. But that earnestness will die, and at the same time that guilt will most likely enable me a fairly comfortable lifestyle for myself, so the question becomes is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Do I let my bright eyes become jaded so soon? I cannot allow myself to let my soul die this swiftly. Our earnestness, or zealousness (or even zealotry), our drive to succeed is what has bound us to each other, or at least what has bound me to the people that I've come to call my closest friends. It's this guilt more than any other that drives me to succeed in the truest, purest, most spiritual sense of success. Not the guilt of the empty diploma case sitting in my room waiting for its prize to be mailed to be in 4-6 weeks. But the guilt that I may let my friends down. That I may in fact have been riding on everyone else's coattails, that without a direct circle of support I may never be a part of anything I find to be important ever again. My biggest fear is that without you I am nothing, that all this time I've been faking--tagging along on the brilliance and creativity of my peers. In short, in a post-graduate existence, am I still going to be cool?

I have friends that have written books, directed films, music videos, and experimental art pieces, started websites and businesses, and produced some fantastic musical creations, all before even graduating, and I'm glad to have known them. And while this discourse may seem to be off-topic and personal, it should in fact be all that decides this theoretically universal post-collegiate conflict. I spoke of earnestness and how it will fade, but there is strength in numbers. Without such a strong support system, I would have long since yielded to the shadows of familiarity, cowering in the face of true freedom, and for this newfound confidence I am ever-grateful. But now I look forward to a future on my own, where people come and go, but the idea stays the same. This is my earnestness, my wide-eyed view of what's to come--that even though I may be shedding a layer of skin, a new one will grow underneath.

So to the Class of 2009, I (and who am I but one of you?) say this: Look to the future, don't cling to the past. It'll only get you down.

Nicholas Coppola: Spolier of Victor

In the jagged age of youth, the pimpled populace continues to opine their plight while living in the greatest empire in recent history. At least that's what I've seen when I've bothered to look up from a screen (Did you know there's a place on the internet that allows you to feed a fake carrot to a real bunny?) For a fluff film, National Treasure gets talked about. A LOT. I suppose it presented a mythology while educating me on my Nation's history. The film made be proud to be an American, eager to learn new things but this educational utopia was ruined in the film's last moments. Nick Cage and his love interest are standing on his estates. She hands him something under the guise that she made it for him. He looks at it in his, utterly befuddled, asking, "It's a map...What for?"

The female character responds "You'll figure it out." before scampering to her mansion.

The film fades to credits. The past two hours presented ciphers and adventure but am I to believe that Nicolas Cage's character doesn't know where the clitoris is located?

And that's why pornography is more popular than History.

If Murdered I'll Know Who Dun It?

I recall the halcyon days of High School. In particular, I remember the particularly bland days of Sophomore Year. I'd yet to fall in with the film crowd (ie Nick & Dan) and dedicated large chunks of time to playing 3 on 3 basketball games for Pizza Hut Pizzones. I was without a car or money, so my unveiling my predatory basketball skills was my best way to procure the new confection. I'm always up on the new confection as evidenced by my favorite game of trying a new food daily. Budgetary constraintz have limited this goal but yesterday I managed to nick a bagel stick with a premeditated cream cheese filling. The future's an amazing place. One day bagels lead the snack world in vibrancy. Tomorrow? Wall-E will be courting yours truly.
I spend a lot of time with past incarnations of Joel Walkowski. If unguarded I find myself falling into the egocentric Director of 2004 and with the NBA playoffs (blase but still the NBA playoffs) airing nightly I revisit the Charles Barkley entranced six-year-old of June 1993.
I'm still watching basketball even though it's the same old show. Charles Barkley retains the same tongue-lashing presence as he had during his playing days. Maybe even more so despite his recent DUI arrest because he was en route to "the best blowjob of his life". It's the same feeling aside from just Barkley. I've dabbled pretty seriously in both film and writing. My obsessive nature pushed this on me b/c I didn't want to pull a Tennis Player and get burnt out too young. Coming out on the other side, I'll gladly declare film the Winner. I believe the best book is better than the best movie due to the self-reflexive nature of the beast. What book's lack? Chill moments. I saw Star Trek the other night. I don't know Spock from a Frock. My interest: I kinda like space. Stars are cool and such. They glow, we rotate around them, Heidi's Dad managed to make a career out of it. The film blended a fun plot with philosophical ramifications, giving pastiche in hard-bodied young actors. The creamy brown thighs and lightning blue eyes were secondary to moments beyond the film, far from the story, moments in which you care not for context and feel a physical sensation from the on screen splendor. It can come in a jaw drop, a shiver down your spine, or a seizure if you're an epileptic unfortunate enough to view Pokemon: The Movie in theaters. The closest a book'll give is a paper cut.
Without fail the whirl and wizardry of pregame Motion Graphics gives me a case of the ol' shudders. I'll never understand the full significance of Romans going to cheer their Gladiators for regional prominence and the wine-soaked orgies that followed, but these pregame hi-jinks make me happy to be an American, striding the couch with FunYuns in hand. Viewing a game is an all-too-often fruitless activity but the pageantry never lets down. Witness the first two minutes of this clip from the 1993 in question.

It worked then and it works now.


The primary reason I like Sports is that, unlike other cultural sticking points such as films and comic books, the designation of Hero and Villain is yours to choose. Even better, you get to watch their exploits play out in a real time Universe with graphic pizazz dictating the action. I watch these games with envy, confined to the solitary life of a quasi-artist but why can't it be like that. If you want to embarrass me bring up a Dearborn Press and Guide article written on me in my Senior Year of High School after I won some video competition. I'd yet to throw down with Brock or think about what I was doing, I just knew I enjoyed it. This naivety produced the quote "I just want to live in a cave and emerge every few years with something great...like Stanley Kubrick." Ha! Dare I point out the level of douchery, single-mindedness, and utter disgust of such a statement? Art is a beautiful collaboration. Without a career in Sports, I clung to art for the challenge, creative free flow, and camaraderie above all else.
When you're young and hang out with another, interactions are limited to watching a screen, playing a popular game, etc. Then you get a car. In my case the car was a 1993 Mercury Villager that instantly became my domain. I took out the back seats for Hay and a bowling ball. Days were spent tooling around Detroit with Dan and Nick by my side. The criteria established in the Van was to weird out others, make a nuisance, and generally feel free at the expense of other's comfort. We were nearly arrested many times. It was wonderful.
Outsiders would witness our antics (applauding other drivers at stoplights, parking on a dark street and honking until lights came on, etc.) and respond "You're going to get shot."
That might be the case. After speaking jibberish to a bystander the other night, that journalistic rabblerouser Hoopster, pressed me to explain my actions.
"I don't know. A great big feeling wells up and the weirdness is impossible to contain. It's pretty self serving but it makes the world, albeit only slightly, a more interesting place."
Yeah...uh...ok.
Last night, I was headed home from a Tenori-On session when a pedestrian crossed my path. "Bork!" I cried. "Bork! Bork! Bork! Bork!" The man didn't respond and I skipped into the night. A few houses down, I heard heavy footsteps behind me. It was him! I thought of running but was too far gone in confusion to flee. He was gaining quick so I turned around to face him. He was one of those fellows with hair of string indicative of a hard-scrabble blue collar life. He was smaller by miles but I was the one who was scared. Something animalian was in his eyes.
"I thought you called my name."
"No man. I'm just being weird y'know."
"You sure you weren't calling my name."
"No I was thinking of these creatures I created called Borgs so I started making Bork noises."
"Ok."
He started walking in front of me. He was wearing headphones. I let him continue two houses in front of me. When I reached my house he stopped. Ears filled with metal, I don't know how he heard me. He turned around, his profile glinting under the Sodium Streetlight. I ran inside, locked the door. I went to the basement window. He was still watching.
I fear I struck him on some unknown level prompting his return. Perhaps he'll come back, toting a double-barrelled variant of something awful and demand an explanation linking him to "BORK!". I'll only have shrugs and sheepishness. Maybe he'll shoot.
In closing, I have enough good people to make movies with I think we can manage to be preserved in Motion Graphics before our lot's up.

Yeah, like so what, if I'm lame

I can't eat a piece of pizza without finding myself at odds with the Animal Kingdom by way of Avery, my plodding dinkus of a dog. Things frequently held in my hand are limited to books, balls, and food. Ever the optimist, she's certain I'm always holding food. I'll enter a room, close the door behind me but she'll enter, preceded by the mole-like mountain flanking the crown of her head. With thirteen years under our belt it's too late to call it quits but I'm having second thoughts about including a Dog in the RV adventure. How much tongue-waggling can one man endure? Americans reserve the pursuit of happiness under the constitution but this begs the question. How can such a lofty goal be achieved when one is constantly besotted by a brown dog tongue (not even pink but brown). She's only on the good side of one person. The person in question is an Indian Immigrant and views Avery as something of a novelty. He says goodbye to her when he visits.

When a writer has nothing to write about he gets angry at the Dog. When a filmmaker has no camera or Nick Olah, he gets angry at the dog. I don't doubt the existence of female writers/filmmakers (I've met seven) but I trust they're compassionate enough not to utilize their canine brethren as emotional scape goats.

The hatred for Avery has subsided and I've found my eyes attuned in a constant glower at my cat Zeke. My fury is such that I will pause this posting to poke him in the side on say something taunting... He's become the mantel of my scourge for following his animal instincts and assaulting a Rabbit embryo.

My mom discovered an eyeless lump writhing in the ground. Her first reaction was to bury it but she called me outside. After a relatively minor discourse, we decided to rescue the bunny to be. We set him up on a heating pad, fed him milk off our thumbs, other good things. I got out her pedicure set and removed debris from his wounds with her tweezers. I think I forgot to wash them before putting them back, if I bothered to put them back at all. A dubious query if there ever was one.

To hold something 1/5000th your side? To have the "little dude" as John coined him lap warm milk off your thumb? To watch his ears unfurl and give him a rabbiteen appearance? I posed these things as questions but don't know why. It's a really good feeling.

UPDATE

Fuck it all. The mortal coil has slipped away. It's just one big roller skating rink and your skate rental has just expired. The poor little dude passed away earlier this afternoon. I will not see a blind person without considering you. My chances of someday having a blind mate are now obsolete.

Goodbye Little Dude.

Fun With Holes and Not Fun With Holes

I am an Owl, hooting hooting in my nocturnes in the creepy stillness of my suburban street. This is a glamorous way of saying I'm living in my Mom's basement and not sleeping much. To spite my hours, I'm making a concerted effort to get out of the house as much as possible whether it be to the woods, games of Frisbee with Middle-Aged Men who scoff at my headband at Diva effrontry. To wit: a pass was intended for me but Paul, a much older and pot-bellied teammate defied his years and leapt for the frisbee, sending it caroming out of reach. My purest state is chasing down an airborne ball and disk. My eyes widen to canyon proportions as I tumble, tizzy, and drool in epileptic pursuits. It was a tightly contested game and I couldn't contain my displeasure as the disk fluttered asunder. A show of hands and a disapproving comment later, I figure I'll stick to nights.

Nights in the suburbs are creepy with due and quiet houses. I've heard of the supposed white flight that populated suburbs but I rarely see a soul. I can spend hours outside without seeing another person, a fact I really like. I'm longing for Los Angeles, the beach, and the strangeness that comes out sometimes (not that it doesn't come out here) but don't miss running over beer-soaked hobos.

The other night I ingested copious amounts of Triple Chocolate Ice Cream and went for walking in the dark along side John and the Hoopster. Feeling young, like sixteen, we compared musculature, body hair, and fashioned ordinary articles of clothing into extraordinary bandannas. A car sidled up. A boy and girl were inside. They were awkwardly pausing, sharing a glance of hormonal trepidation. I yelled "Date!" and we skipped off giggling. Maybe it was the unprovoked action of the Asshole in me but it could've been helpful. Sometimes, particularly in romantic endeavors, an outside perspective gives the extra boost of gusto as Hoopster can attest. The night air was warm. A breeze blew in such a way as to suggest the Ocean was nigh. We ran around like little kids. I watched my friends do cartwheels and tried the same. I fell on my head. We giggled over "Touch and Run". Touch and Run originated when John, Hoopster, and Nick visited LA for Spring Break two years back. We were driving home from a Clippers/Pistons game when I leapt from the car, ran to a man, and put my arm around him. This drew his immediate attention. I screamed "Touch and Run!" and ran, thus touching and running. It may be intrusive but it may be the future of social networking. Imagine you're on a street or in some serious flourescent corridor. Someone runs up, hands you a business card, then touches you. They scream "Touch and Run" then run away. You look at the card. It informs you "You've just been touch and runned." Then it lists the website and the toucher's Toucher ID and profile. If you're reading this blog, you're probably the sort of person to log on. Who knows? Maybe you'd like to touch and run. Maybe you thought your toucher attractive and the feeling's reciprocal. Many will be married. Also, scavenger hunts will be a big part of this.

I've always been enamored with the idea of disrupting average activities. First of all, it's fun. Secondly, I believe anything out of the ordinary is a good thing. Insight comes from the extremes.

On the way home from the golf course, I rode my bike five miles without using the handlebars. I screamed as I rode, waiting for crossing headlights to strike me down. It felt weird and not of this planet so I went to the gas station for some candy. I hopped off my bike in front of a car of drunk girls and a chorus of "Whoos!". I gave a polite wave and assumed that was that as I proceeded to buy a Whatchamacallit. On the way out, they called "Get in the car.' Some men (cough Ross Godwin) would jump at this opportunity but my natural reaction was not to plant my seed at all cost but a wry grin and flummoxed head shake. "Twenty dolalrs to take off your pants." My financial state is a dire one and I'm a well known exhibitionist in certain circles as Jeff and Dan have documented. I've been covered in body paint, eating roots in the nude. I portrayed Appu's wife in a series of stills that still resonate in the darkest chambers of USC film school under the watchful eye of Zack Savitz.I couldn't go that low. I couldn't pants myself in a gas station parking lot. I rode away. They yelled after, "What's wrong with you. A car full of girls yells at you and you just wave?" I agree completely. Something's definitely wrong with me but I heartily doubt I'll find the cure from going home with randoms to smoke menthol cigarettes and watch Hockey.

There is a crater on my street flanked by two pink flags denoting the flat tire in waiting. My greatest traffic fear is getting a wheel caught in the crater. Anyhow, pot holes are under utilized as an artistic medium. I thought of the bored suburbanites who'd see the crater and fret for their tires. I did what any good citizen would do. At five o'clock this moring I filled the hole (it went two feet down!) with dirt and planted some flowers in the crater.

I have things I do when I get really down or encounter acute mental blockage. They are as follows.
1) Shoot hoops in an imagined scenario in which I play Small Forward for the New York Knicks.
2)

• Drink
  

3) Sing songs without lyrics.
4) Put on the Unitard.
5) Sit outside
6) Put funny things in potholes. I can't wait to fill a hole with a dragons tail or to make it appear that a man is lying prostrate in the road with his head down the hole.

"Tent-a-Cles!" on the Hillside (draft)

Part one.


He wouldn’t tell us much about the scars across his eyes. He was staying at our house at random, and when some people saw him for the first time they couldn’t help but ask, “Hey… how’s it goin? Uh, what’s with the scars?!” Lennart didn’t flinch. He stares. A lot.

His response communicated in the unconventional sense of the word. His tone was concentrated, and he said (slowly - surely, but slowly, as one who conquers mountains of the mind), “In an accident.” He didn’t say it the second time, so I felt lucky to have heard that his brother has scars in those exact places. It blew my mind. Their faces – opposing sides of an equation or branches on a tree? A natural Rorschach in caricature. I wanted to meet his brother… maybe see them side by side, and then get to know them, then see two personalities that grew-grow-willgrow to the same light?

We met through the internet. We gave him a place to stay, and in exchange they gave us some cigarettes. …Without having to pay. In fairness, they also gave us amazing stories of their travels, including a time they got kicked out of a Turkish barber shop since they almost started a fight with the hairdresser who gave them the worst fucking haircut they’d ever experienced. The Turkish and Ze Germans hate each other. They told us, and we learned.

They stayed at our house for over a week, and no doubt – we had an amazing time. There’s no way to describe the way it feels to share life experiences with someone who breathes different air. It’s bizarre, and it’s funny, and you want to circle the globe until your feet are brown and calloused, until you have so many stories that you understand true love, and better: all the ways people laugh when they learn something shocking, new.

…………………………………

Everything was normal before they went to Vegas. They stayed with some other Germans while they were there, and Johannes, the other guy living in our house for so long, would only stay in his room when they got back from their trip. They were rather close-mouthed when they returned. I found them sitting on the balcony, and they didn’t say much, staring at their computers, only, “Yes, it was fun.” Now, they talked to each other in their own language more than before. I prodded, and we were able to laugh about similar experiences with collections of prostitute baseball cards.

Upon his return we took Lennart into the Malibu mountains. It was a charming experience, to appease his eagerness for “Baywatch” destinations. Hah - BOOBS. “David Hasselhoff!” he yelled and we all laughed together, including Lennart the German. The drive took longer than expected, and after miles of dark ocean we swirled up a hillside. It was fucking hilarious, I’m sure, to the outside observer who saw five sublimated young men – one so different than the other four, and that strange one experiencing our creative taste in music. Eventually, we got out.

There was a path that hugged the side. The sky was light enough, and, hazy. We took the path, and the German had no shoes, still, after more than a week, but we walked and walked. Turns around any bend offered no view, no sensible place to stop but this journey was by chance and we walked like zombies until we felt comfortable enough to rest. We stopped on the side of a hill, and in front of us we saw: dark trees touch hillside against valley floors dawning subtle sea before the shimmer of Santa Monica, and I’m sure each of us thought: that German guy sees it differently than we do.

We got bored, staring at the place around us – a good thing, especially in close vicinity of a trusted stranger that you want to learn about.
As before, he seemed new, after Vegas, in a way that tangled my mind. It seemed he was ready to take over the world.

I sat down, and started throwing rocks at trees. As I got better at hitting the trees, ~distantsilhouettes~ and it made the German curious. I watched as he bent over and found the right rock to throw. He tried, but he was worse than me, and I made a point of telling him. …It’s good to fuck with someone; Emotion. You learn about them. Anyway, we raced until one of us had 10 hits on the tree, which took longer than you’d expect - 15 minutes. He was a slow learner, but almost caught up towards the end. I beat him 10 – 8, and I even let go of one point.

Then, nothing special.
He smoked cigarettes.
We talked about the stars.

Quiet.
Quiet.
Quiet.
Quiet.
Quie

That's when he told us about The Aliens.

Om Ara Bha Sa Na Dhhhhhhiiiii

This post pertains to Crows. Music is important and though I see fit to put on a selection from her fine catalog of music, this is not about Sheryl Crow though I imagine she follows similar lessons after similar health battles although I doubt she's ever had the same conversation with my Mother that made such lessons learnedly possible. Note: I caught her drumstick at the first concert I ever attended. I was eleven.

Personal Integrity IE Walking your talk.

I was recently in the hospital. For several weeks I found myself in the hospital on and off combating bouts of Gastrointestinal Bleeding that manifested themselves through bloody vomit or were sucked out through a straw they fed through my nose and into my esophagus. My sole comfort came in the form of friend's visitations and friendly nurses. I didn't appreciate the comforts of a solo room. Nor did I detour from the whizz-bang synaptic processes of an ADD-addled mind to make much sense of my situation and the difficulties of certain lifestyle changes IE not drinking. One can refrain from eating the forbidden fruit but one can't ignore it. I know I can't drink but I can still watch a lot of sports. One of the problem with sporting events the world over is constant beer commercials. A beer would be sweet right now. I'll stay strong. I look forward to a glass of low-proof champagne at both my weddings. My mind is working great. I appreciate the silence of my Mother's basement, something I failed to appreciate in the lovely confines of my solo hospital room.

During my last day in the hospital I was moved to a less intensive floor and gained a roommate--a flamboyantly overweight African American and self proclaimed "dancer" with a red dyed afro and an absess in his foot. He watched day time television, the worst kind, at ear-wrenching volumes that filled the room with Rachel Ray. It must've been torture for him. He wasn't allowed to eat yet watched thirty minute meals get prepared. He even watched in sleep. I didn't mind the volume so much until my Mother came to visit. She is very noise sensitive and I could tell from her face that it was driving her crazy. She sat at the window, the farthest possible place from the TV. She could be with her son and have a minimal amount of Rachel Ray's nasal exhalations. She breathes perky with every breathe.

I was unable to read Tom Wolfe's Hooking Up so I hobbled around the room exploring the toilet and my medical charts. I stopped in front of my mother. Neither of us had much to say to the other. We were four floors up. I could see a highway out the window. I could see USC. I looked at them both and thought of the good times. Leaning abck and staring straight up at the VKC tower, driving down the ten to visit Joshua Tree. Life with Dan, Paul, Dr. de los, Greg, Nick, Sticky, Caitlin, Jeff, Heidi, Nico, Brock, Matt, Ross, Zack, McNally, Appu, Paul Gleason, and the Titanic force of Baby Jamster. The ground was fifty feet below, too high for most birds.

Most birds.

A crow landed on my window sill, making direct eye contact and opening his mouth in a silent caw to arms. We stared at each other for over a minute. I panicked at the Crow's bad implications and pointed it out to my mother. It flew away as soon as my Mother turned to look, disappearing into palm fronds.

My mother's religion is a mash-up of Castholic ritual and druid beliefs making her a veritable melting pot of faiths. One of the tenants is something called Medicine Cards in which you draw a card featuring a totem animal and get your guidance from an accompanying book. It is more important if you see the animal yourself. The card's are very good because they are not always positive. On Friday morning my mother dabbled in her hallowed practice and presented me with the Crow. I thought it fit quite well. Here are some excerpts.

The Crow

"The Crow sees that the physical world and even the spiritual world, as humanity interprets them, are an illusion. There are billions of worlds. There are an infinitude of creatures."

"Crows are an omen of change. The crow lives in a void and has no sense of time. The ancient chiefs tell us that the crow sees simultaneously the three fates--past, present, and future. Crow merges light with darkness, seeing both inner and outer reality."

"You must pause and reflect on how you see the laws of the great spirit in relation to the laws of humanity. Crow medecine signifies a first hand knowledge of right and wrong different than those indicated by laws created by human culture. With crow medicine, you speak in a powerful voice when addressing issues that for you seem out of balance, out of harmony, out of whack or unjust."

"You must put aside your fear of being a voice in the winderness and caw the shots as you see them."

"As you learn to allow your personal integrity to be your guide, your sense of being alone will vanish. Your pensonal will can then emerge so that you will stand in your truth. The prime path of the true crow people says to be mindful of your opinions and actions. Be willing to walk your talk, speak your truth, know your life's mission, and balance past, present, and future in the now. Shape shift that old reality and become your future self. Allow the bending of physical laws to aid in creating the shape shifted world of peace."

"So you are the outlaw today, eh? This is one of the varied measures of Crow reversed. The rebel in you has given a yell and all hell is about to break loose."

"Honer the past as your teacher, honer the present as your creation, and honor the future as your inspiration."

That's the Crow in a nutshell. I'm trying to follow it's path. Coupled with a an Elizabeth Gilbert TED video sent along by Heidi and McNally, I feel really great about all things.

*****
I'm dreaming about my LA friends a lot. Last night, I dreamed we all went to a theme park and went riding along on a haunted roller coaster that absoulutely delighted Nick, Heidi, and Brock. It did not suit Paul Gleason. Halfway through the ride, as the coaster ascended to heights neccesitated a g-force drop, Paul hauled out of the coaster cart and berated our guide, an acne-faced grim reaper, for putting on such a phony show. He was escorted out of the ride and ejected from the park. Oh Paul you scamp!

NewHindenburg's NonBasketball Playoff Preview!!!

Oh Hello there. This is Joel Walkowski coming straight at you from the suburban muckrake of Dearborn, Michigan. I'm living in my Mother's basement, playing basketball with high school kids despite my inability to run. In a silver lining after 18 years of hoopin' up I've discovered the delicate art of the jumpshot by way of muscular atrophy and David Foster Wallace's tennis racket romanticism. You are a body. Everything you touch is part of your body. Yuk yuk yuk. There's a nice peace in my body, a quiet sobriatic hum that requires no coffee to wake up and infuses all physical exertions with a near-constant echo. I'm not sure of grammatical rules. I've got 750 pages left to read.

On Saturday, the NBA playoffs begin. I'll be watching alone and abandoning the ritual of cottonmouthed bliss on the living room floor. It should be a good one. The great narrative is in full swing with gladiators vying for their slot in the pantheon and requisite bounties of endorsement money. LeBron James endorses lawn mowers. Lawn mowers. If he wins the title, what'll come next? LeBron James: the official basketball player of Brock Alter's facewash? LeBron James: Jeff LaPenna's official masseuse. I drop the name of friends in this interval because of homesickness and a tough goodbye. Oh well. I constrained most of the tears, smuggled what I needed to smuggle and found a baggie of cocaine in the airport's terminal. Of course, the suddenly pseudo-upstanding man that I am discarded it. Note: sorry McWriter. I could've saved it but I didn't know GirlTalk's next tour dates.

Tony the Pony: AKA I'm Not Dead Part II

Holla up mas negroles? 

The role of a young man, such as I, is not to self-actualize. Rather than take a moral survey it is much simpler, and easier when drunk, toss around terminology like "mas negroles" without pausing to consider what kind of person uses turns of tongue like "mas negroles". Well, after some aches and pain, I've come to the sort of self a

ctualizing young men usually resist like penicillin resistant strains of chlamydia. 

Joel Walkowski is an eruption of blood waiting to happen. 

Over the past ten days I've received 14 blood transfusions (4 shy of the California Record) and shattered little world views. In brief previews of the other side I assured myself that things were forever different...Maybe they are...maybe they aren't. The sun will rise tomorrow, I'll come up with it. I'll do the things I like to do but for the first time i'll have to consider the question of what I'm able to do without resorting into the brock 

alterian hyperbole of superpowers and "y'know making a dough with soul". 

Drinking? Gone. 

Dipping? Gone. 

Sword Swallowing? Gone. 

I feel really great about all of this. 

NEW OPINIONS GLEANED FRROM CALIFORNIA HOSPITAL

* This opinion was borrowed from Tom Wolfe and is dumbed down in a way not befitting the writer who foremost understands America: It's all about the vibrancy. No one wants to read about the nature of art.  For the next 365 days I will be introducing a new feature to the Hindenburg. The pony of the day. In this feature I will describe a pony. 

This pony, Tony, is artificial with a coat of flaxen-fur and haunched tired from imaginary journeys. Tony's never taken a step but rocked side to side, wobbled (both to and fro) and encumbered himself with the full weight of mental weariness, making him a VERY TIRED PONY. 

Oh, Tony!

According to the filename, Tony is actually named Butterscotch, an undeniably insipid moniker. 

*IV's are best inserted in the wrist. 

*Sitting in a bed and watching TV all day is my own personal hell. 

*Not eating for four days might be worse, 

*Due to severe anemia, certain parts of my anatomy are unable to work at full precision. This does not frustrate. I've been thinking about airplanes instead. 

*If someone tells you "I'm a dancer", you tend to believe them no matter how overweight they are. 

*A mom rubbing your hair is the best feeling in the world. 

*The other side is warm, secure, and tempting. At my worst I almost floated off but something kept me tethered here. I could see the world from the vantage of astral projection, 2-3 feet over my bed looking down at my bed. In this moment of unencumbered being I made sure the TV was off so I wouldn't be disturbed by the droning of Jerry Seinfeld. I felt a certain sense of getting in a good mood b/c of an instinct advising me that the way I felt at that moment would be the way I felt forever. I slipped into bliss and nearly crept off but was drawn back by certain visions that best remain private. 

*They were stunning. Fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Across the street a Mexican was selling roses.

Hello My Name Is Paul Gleason

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Live with Tess someday. 

4. Don't be an old bowl of Macaroni

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

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

I Am Seattle, Hear Me Roar

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


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

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

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

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

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

Happiness will soon come from pills.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a wonderful change.

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

But there is always a need to be rules.

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

More to come upon revisions.

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