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

A Day in the Life

This post was totally going to be a huge and sweeping essay about Robocop but then the thesis fell apart and felt half baked. Don’t you hate when that happens? After McWriter’s masterful post last night, the last thing I wanted to do was present anything but my best. So much pressure, indeed.

Unfortunately, sometimes we cannot tap into our best, no matter how hard we try. Though I scrapped the Robocop essay, I cannot promise that this will be much better. I’m more excited to write it though.

Robocop will not be entirely absent from this post though. Instead I will present the moment and back story that inspired the aborted post.

As usually happens, I sauntered into work 10-15 minutes after my work day was to begin. I get good naturedly grilled by my manager and fellow co-worker (not the depressed one), about it. Then who should walk into my manager’s office, but none other than Huey. Quick back ground on Huey. He’s the library’s janitor and wears all white when he’s not working. He’s also one of the most kind and generous people I’ve ever met. Not to start three straight sentences the same way but he’s just an all around top notch person (see what I did there? I was totally going to start the sentence with “he’s” again). We talk about sports mainly, today’s no different, but as he’s on his way out for the day, the conversation will be brief and about the Lakers (as it normally is from October through June).

“So Sergei,” Huey says, “we’re going to talk about nicknames today. Laker nicknames.”

We run through a few: Trevor Ariza is “The Assassin”, Sasha Vujacic is “The Machine,” and Jordan Farmar is…well, no one really knows, but it probably has something to do with him being half Jewish. Then we get to the only Laker most people care about, Kobe Bryant.*

“And Kobe, do you know what his new nickname is?” Huey asks.

“The Black Mamba,” I offer up.

“Not anymore. Now they're calling him Robocop.”

Huey chuckles, as he is awesomely prone to do, and as I’m about raise objection to this obviously silly nickname, my co-worker jumps in.

“No way! Kobe Bryant is no Robocop,” she says before storming out of the office, obviously gravely insulted that anyone would even contemplate equating the Lakers on court leader to the robotic hero.

And that was that. Huey left for the apartment complex he manages in south central Los Angeles, I headed for my desk to turn on my computer, and my manager went back to eating her lunch. But the story doesn’t end there. Well it does, as far as that incident is concerned, but there’s still stuff to cover. And it has to do with my co-workers, disgust at Kobe being called Robocop. Obviously the nickname is a bit odd and kind of stupid—really what do the two even have to do with one another—but was my co-worker’s reaction warranted? Completely, if you know how she feels about Robocop.

You see my co-worker is in love with Robocop. I don’t just mean that she thinks he’s cool (like me and countless others the world over). Robocop is her ideal man.

Sometime last year, Nick and I got into a conversation with her about what kind of men she like’s. “I like them big,” she said. “Really built, huge muscles and everything.”

“Like Robocop,” Nick or I facetiously chimed in.

“Exactly. Like Robocop. Now there’s a man,” she said with the utmost honesty upon her face.

“But he’s a robot!!!” we wailed.

To my co-worker that doesn’t matter, because to her Robocop is the epitome of masculinity. Not just superficially either. As I’ve learned through conversations in the months since the initial disclosure, she loves everything about him; what he stands for, his inability—no refusal—to let go of his humanity, and, well, that body. There’s just no way around it, my co-worker is in love with Robocop.

And I think that is sort of amazing.

*I say most people only really care about Kobe because it's the truth. But me? My heart's with Lamar.

Listen... 

I did my last post before seeing recent scourges of Mr. McWriter. His presence on this here blog, this newhindenbugrian of NewHindenburgs makes me feel small, a quaker in the wake of sodomy. 

Please. Please. Please. Vanquish me. I never want to write again. Baseball's starting. For the longest time, I've abandoned this blog, I've kept posting, offering somewhat lyrical onslaughts on my bullshit but that ain't the game. Writing is fun. Sharing is fun. These things shouldn't feel like a burden. 

My life is so empty right now. Brock keeps calling me a housewife. I tell him I;m more than a housewife. I'd like to say "Motherfucker! I'm finishing a motherfucking novel but people don't read books anymore!:" Such sentiments would render my point as moot. I want to live or die. I want a corner. I want risk. Every time we get together people turn to a screen. I try my best to abstain. I type words instead. 

Youth is dead. 

Let's all buy vacuums and get wives.

Let's settle and settle and settle some more. 

I hate myself. 

Hey Friends

Lent is here. The time of repentance is nigh. A few years ago I put an ashen face smiley face on my face in celebration of Ash Wednesday. If I knew any girls, I'd whirl charm and words to become a true heathen. I guess I'm not up to that caliber and I find myself wanting to go to Church. I guess this is a...good thing? But the only churches around speak Spanish. 

I really want to hug my Mom right now. I want to slap my sister in the face...in a good way. 

Various things attract me but Catherine Keener's nose, swooping down in hawk-formed jewery gets me each and every time. It's half librarian, half school girl.

All I do is write, drink, do push-ups, and play sports. I gave up reading about sports for Lent. This is gonna be a long Lent. 

sooo much pressure!

it's over. my days of resting on my laurels knowing that everybody else only posts every once in a while. thinking that i can just write whenever i feel inspired to write. wrong. those days are long gone. we have entered the dynasty of sergei tortoise.

not to say of course that our fearless leader joel 'clean coal' walkowski's dynasty is over. far from it. he will always be my leader, having been the inviter to my invitee, the pusher to my taker, the biker to my...well, also biker. but joel is no longer the sole planet in this blogoverse with a few revolving satellites (namely, myself and jeff ze pen, though jeff ze pen has probably upgraded from satellite status as well). the blog is real now. it has a collection of styles, a harmony of voices, a whole goddamn school of fish, if you will. as my best friend in high school used to say to our opponents at the free throw line during NIC-9 basketball games: "SOOO MUCH PRESSURE!"

i like to think he said it at least 50% ironically. i mean, come on. a free throw in a high school basketball game in northern illinois? in the larger scheme of things, the pressure would hardly register. but he said it (screamed it! along with my other best friend always yelling to the referee: "hey ref, watch 3 in the key!" even when it's obvious there was no 3 second violation. it's all the get in their heads man!) anyway, and sometimes it worked. so much pressure. i think we can all relate to that. but i know what you're saying to yourself. you're saying to yourself "dammit mc_____, enough with this whole 'big picture' philosophy, let's talk about women!" well i'm sorry, i cannot oblige you. these late night examinations of self that i indulge in more than occassionally are the only things that keep me grounded in reality. if i didn't think about the big picture, i would have killed myself in high school. it's wayyy too easy for people, especially me (at least i think so), to get caught up in the everyday shenanigans and lose their minds. but who's to say i haven't lost it already? i mean, look at me! i don't even use capital letters!

i've sort of been keeping it a secret (well, not a secret, but i haven't told anybody about it, so i guess yeah, a secret) but i recently joined twitter. i'm not sure why i kept it a secret, or didn't tell anyone about it, but i think it has to do with the recently fashionable opposition to online social networking. you know. "oh you have a TUMBLR? what are you GAY?" or "i shut off my facebook because i found it too stifling to my creativity." or "i only subscribe to LinkedIn, because it's real. all those other social network sites have totally sold out." and to that i say 'get off your high horses, you fat turkeys!' but until just now i was saying 'perhaps you're correct, so i will hide my twitter in shame so i do not fall to the ridicule of my peers.' twitter is a strange beast. while exceedingly simple, it's impossibly intimidating at the same time. there's an entire lingo, culture, and protocol to using it correctly, and that alone would be enough for me to hesitate in attempting to wrangle it to my whims, even without the attached social stigma. but i'm trying, and now it's out there, in the open, so maybe now i'll have some people to talk to on it. but no pressure.

another great story: now i consider myself a fairly laid back dood. i don't get caught up in people's shit (see 'big picture', above), i try to play the peacemaker when things get out of hand, and i try not to worry about what other people think of me. but this weekend was a true test of my laidbackitude. now my job calls for a semi-annual meeting (called "semi-annual." campus cruiser is not a creative enterprise) once a semester to give everyone new numbers and go over policies and new stuff that will be happening and such. and cruisers being who they are (the bottom of the barrel of the work study society, being that we work, but never study. but god how i love 'em!) there is traditionally what we call a "mixer" the night before every semi-annual. these "mixers" often last literally all night, given that campus cruiser runs until 3am nightly, with the intention of letting those poor souls who work the latest a chance to join in the festivities. so this "mixer" fell on a friday, with the "semi-annual" being on saturday at noon.

friday night was a big night for me. there was a birthday party for a screenwriter friend of mine downtown, which brock and i attended via bicycle. the bar was loud, crowded, and expensive, but fun nonetheless. i made a comment to brock about how all the yelling would be the end of my social abilities the next day (read: i was gonna lose my voice, fo sho). after bidding the very wasted birthday girl adieu, we rode home, where i found nico, fresh from a truly crappy day of shooting his film. i drunkenly told him how much i loved him and how he was the one that was going to make it because he's the best of all of us (while quickly--quickly--downing two more vodka tonics). needless to say, i was six ways to sunday already by this point. but the "mixer" awaited.

i had promised some of the few friends i have at cruiser that i would make an appearance, and by this point in the night i was riding so high on the depressant that is alcohol that i was game for anything. i hopped back on the bicycle and headed to the "mixer." i immediately headed to the gaming table. the gaming table being where everyone is gathered playing quarters or some such bullshit. i loudly announced my presence and was met with minor fanfare. despite being a (very) senior cruiser, i know few of the newer people, who seemed to mostly populate this party. but a few true cruisers knew me and gladly welcomed my drunken ass. the game changed to flip cup. a challenge was issued from younger cruisers to the older cruisers. i realize that referring to us as "cruisers" gives us a certain connotation, but alas, that's what we are.

a side note to protect what little pride i have left (you'll understand by the end of the story): flip cup is not my game. i'm not that great at it.

the flip cup game ends in tears. not literal tears. but the sort of tears you get after chugging beer so quickly you dry (wet?) heave and still end up losing. yes, we lost. multiple times. that's when things get hazy. i recall finding myself in the kitchen over a fresh red solo cup of vodka and coke and shrugging to myself thinking "eh, why not?"

flash forward (which is what it felt like to me) to next morning: i am lying on the floor in my spider-man boxers (a true sign that it's approaching laundry day. why oh why didn't i do laundry before the "mixer"?!) on the third floor of a house i didn't know had a third floor. my clothes are in a wet pile next to me. i have either pissed myself or taken off all of my clothes and pissed on them. i'm leaning towards the latter, because there is no other way i could have pissed on my own hat. of course, i could have just spilled or been spilled on. but for the sake of my embarrassment let's say it was piss. i am alone. i am still drunk. really really drunk. i stand up and notice an open room. i don't bother to check what time it is. i flop onto a bed that belongs to someone i do not know and fall asleep probably mid-flop.

a few hours (minutes? days? i have no idea) later: i am awoken by who i imagine is the owner of the bed.
"let's go, 1 o'clock already, time to leave."
i don't think he meant for his bed to serve as a dropping point for piss-covered jackasses. i put on my still-wet clothes muttering a quiet "ah, shit" (when i realize that i did, in fact, completely lose my voice) and stumbled down the two flights of stairs. i ride my bike home but have no recollection of the route i took. i probably fell asleep on the way. it is long past the point where i could show up to the "semi-annual" with any semblance of respect. in short, during a celebration for our semi-annual meeting, i got too drunk and slept through our semi-annual meeting. so everyone who didn't get alcohol poisoning and went to the meeting knows exactly why i wasn't there. my shame was unbearable. i was drunk until 8pm saturday.

but through a combination of big-picture philosophy and some cathartic blog-posting, i've purged the guilt from my soul. the pressure has been lifted. i invite you to sympathize, empathize, ridicule, mock, deride, console, relate to, whatever you want, positive or negative. i think we can all learn from this.

and i believe i've lost control. this has spiraled out of orbit and we're heading for a gate crash (ok i've been watching a lot of cowboy bebop lately. anime rules, right sergei? but i'll save that for a future post). but at least i'm pulling my weight around here now. pressure's on you guys.




oh hey, BASEBALL'S BACK!

"Did You Ever See the Holy Mountain?"

Clipse. Rick Rubin. Wow. That's all I have to say. Also, there's a track featuring Kanye that's under consideration for the final album. I hope "'Til the Casket Drops," is an 18 disc album filled with pure gold. That's the only it can live up to my expectations. Who am I kidding, it's guaranteed to be the best album of the coming year.

In other music news, I've spent a lot of time listening to Max Tundra's latest album, "Parallex Error Beheads You," lately. It's pretty boss. Like fer rillz 'n' shit, easily the funnest preoccupied with death album ever. Or something like that.

Very Hindenburgian.

A Chin Makes All the Difference

I shaved the chin of my beard. Now they call it "sideburns."

Creepsters and Movies

This post will not be about my esoteric style of writing.

Long ago, I was a boy scout. Hard to believe--I know--but I was, and eventually I managed attain the rank of Eagle Scout. Anyway, that's that not really important here, what is though, is that on my second or third camping trip, I was paired up with Gary (not his real name), a kid who the rest of my patrol (a subset of the troop I belonged to) thought was weird. I assumed it was because he was awkward and his dad, who was one of our scout leaders, was a jerk, but that wasn't why at all, as I would soon find out.

That first night, as I was trying to get to sleep, Gary started talking to me. I was surprised at first, he wasn't the most talkative of fellows, but seeing a chance to actually get to know him I went along with the small talk. Things were going fine, until this little exchange:

Gary: You know what, sometimes, when I'm lying awake in bed at night, I like think about the perfect murder.

Me (a little confused, a little concerned): Huh?

Gary: The perfect murder. Getting away with it, scott free. I think I could do it. Did you ever think about that?

Me (starting to get weirded out): No.

Gary: I do all the time. I love plotting it out. I'm smart enough, you know? I could definitely get away with it. No one would ever be the wiser.

Me (weary): That's kind of strange...

Gary: I'd like to try it someday. I really think...

Me (getting out of my sleeping bag): You know, it's a nice night. I think I'll sleep outside.


Needless to say, I was creeped out. I hadn't though about this incident for awhile, but was reminded of it while watching Shohei Imamura's 1979 film, "Vengeance Is Mine." It's the story of a Japanese serial killer, who was on the run from the cops for 78 days during the mid or late 60's (I can't remember for sure, I think mid). It's a strange movie, laboriously paced, yet packed with plot. I like it though. It's got plenty of violence, boobs, and a twisted sense of humor. Plus the lead actor, Ken Ogata, is more than a little awesome. Really, what more could you ask of a film.

Oh, one last thing. Years later Gary and I were on the same highschool tennis team (I know, boy scouts and tennis? Yeah, I was a cool). He no longer talked about murder, but what he did do was wet his pants.

LA Is weird

A Prostitute either tried to attack me or seduce me last night. I'm not sure which. All I know is, I'm going for a run, listening to some Jay-Z when I see a woman surmisably stranded by her automobile. I take off my headphones in case I get to be a good Samaritan. Upon getting closer I realize the woman is wearing no pants. Fishnets and panties from the waist down. Also, her car is not her car. It is the car of a John. A man sits in the front seat negotiating. Unable to stop my route and the fervor of exercise, I kept going. As I went by she stuck out a leg and tried to trip me. Her face said "pay me for sex" but her actions said "I want to rob you". I didn't know what to do so I ran through her leg, sending her spinning. This terrified me. I screamed at the top of my lungs, a big guttural yowl from primitive origins. I then saw that a pimp was watching from an adjacent SUV. I sprinted home because he followed me for five blocks. Then I got home and drank some Whiskey. Los Angeles is weird.

Important Announcement!!!

I figured there was no better place than the Hindy to unveil plans for my first novel. I have spent much time over the past few years, telling loved ones of my plans to write the Great American Novel (a hippogriff if there ever was one) starring the X-Men. Well, ladies and gentlemen, the time has come to do just that, only with one little change to that formula.

My first experience with the X-Men, was the early 90's cartoon that aired on Fox. When I then moved onto the actual comics, the books were nearing the tail end of the Jim Lee era. Blue and yellow were everywhere (some times pink and green too); as were belts, pockets, visors, and sunglasses. It was awesome. This is the period of X-Men continuity that my story will be set in, and during this time there were few things that resonated with me more than the father-daughter relationship between Wolverine and Jubilee. So that's what I'm going to focus on.

But this is where the change comes in. Wolverine will not be in my book. Like many Marvel Comic fans, I've grown tired of the character's overexposure (quite the understatement too, believe you me), so I've chosen to replace Logan with none other than award winning documentarian Ken Burns. Unorthodox choice? Of course, but that's the point. Writing the Great American Novel would be all to easy of a task. This novel will force me to better utilize my imagination, to come up with an alternate history for Jubilee, one different from the one seen in the cartoon and comics. Think of it as Phillip Roth's "The Plot Against America," only my novel will be about the X-Men and not about what would have happened had the Nazis won World War II.

So how does Ken Burns come to take on the role of Jubilee's father figure you might ask. Well, here's how: Coming off the success of 1990's "The Civil War," PBS wants yet another boring historical documentary, but Burn's has other ideas. He does not want to become that kind of documentarian, the kind known for being unable to bring his skills to anything other than the past. He wants to tackle something more current, something topical that will resonate with people, particularly teen's a group not as interested in "The Civil War" as the 50-somethings who make up most of PBS's demographic. What better way to find out what adolescents are into, than by visiting a mall; and where better than a mall in the capital of stereotypical mall culture, Southern California's San Fernando Valley. A week after his stroke of genius, Burns finds himself walking through the Sherman Oaks Galleria when a Sentinel (a robot controlled of mutant hating scientist Dr. Trask even bigger mutant hater Henry Gyrich) burst through the mall's roof and in search of the Jubilation Lee, a.k.a. Jubilee. Without thinking Burns comes to the aid yellow jacket clad teen, by deflecting the robot's hand into one of the mall's many fountains, where the water causes the robot to short out. The threat averted, Burn's offers to treat Jubilee to an Orange Julius, knowing that's the only thing that will calm someone after such a traumatic moment. Over the delicious beverage, Burns and Jubilee really hit it off, so much so that he asks her to be his guide through to Southern California mall culture. Being a typical bored teenager, and feeling some sort of familial love for the man, she readily agrees.

That of course will only take up the first few pages or so of the novel. I'll be tackling a few other things as well. Like Jubilee's homelessness (it's not real homelessness, she just doesn't like living with her mom) and dealing with the other sentinels sent after her, especially since a fountain will not always be around for Burns to deflect its reaching hand into. My main focus though, will be Burn's addiction to--in his own words--"fucking." In fact the only reason Burn's had made "The Civil War," was to distract himself from "fucking," but since his series about teen's hanging out in malls is only in the planning stages, it will be harder to avoid "fucking." There will be other things touched upon too, but these are the ones I've figured out so far.

Oh, in case you are worried, Burns and Jubilee will not be doing any "fucking." She's too young for him, and more importantly too pure. Burns is not intersted in that. Also just because he likes "fucking" does not mean he lacks morals.

***

Tomorrow (or by Thursday) I tackle the accusation that I write esoterically.

A Gruff Growl, A Dancer's Brawl, A Balletic Paradise

Attention Citizens of The NewHindenburg! Put down the razor, climb in from that window, and let's have us some meatloaf. I've got a nice warm slice of meat hear for you. Can you hear it sizzle? I bet you can. Meatloaf doesn't normally sizzle but this loaf got some pop to it.

We've been a mopey bunch here of late but I think we're right about most of it. Bryan and the Pen gave us mournful soliloquies on the void. I mean, yeah, it's there and we feel compelled to poke it with a stick. Poking's fun and good but why poke when you can stab it in the heart and suck out it's blood?

I've spent most of my time thinking about writing, which is exactly what I hate most about the majority of young writers. Enough of that though, the time has come to embark on a concerted effort to start writing more.

Don’t you get it? We like being addicted to it.

Scientists will look back on these sentences and say "By golly, I think they're saying the same thing." I'm not a scientist but I applied for a job as a Chemist once. In my circle of friends I've come to notice a disturbing trend among America's youth: we've got no energy. We drift like barnacles and spend more time latching onto whatever's there. Nights of debauchery end with everyone huddled around a computer screen watching video's on Youtube. This is nothing against Youtube, lord knows I love this but how far does it have to go? Our entire lives are spent in front of a screen. We're so lucky to be born in the exact window where we can feel the full complicity of technology while fortunate enough to recall a time when there was no computer in our house. They're a good thing, a swell thing, the very thing these words exist upon. On the downside, Computers be clowning us, dawg.

You can rely on a computer.
You can lie down to a computer.

To a great athlete, the ball feels like part of their body. A great saxophonist can not tell where they end and the saxophone begins. I sit at the computer and become a big, dumb drooling computer. Dialed into electrodes, the brain goes numb as I lie prostrate before the screen. Pen says we're addicted to this feeling of it. I'm down with that. I'm addicted to everything. My personal it comes from sitting at a computer. I sit to write and read about baseball. I hear a clock ticking. Pages left unwritten but can not ween myself from the ambilical feed of information. No one gets a good self-image when comparing themselves to omniscience.

This isn't the computer's fault. As an information terminal, it comes into direct conflict with the writing process which requires one to clear their mind and become a medium.

Paul Auster wrote a book about his Typewriter. I don't think anyone outside my friend Caitlin will ever cuddle their technology.

I'm digressing terribly and resisting the urge to compare William Perry's career YPC to the gross domestic product of Norway. Our generation has nothing to look forward to yet there are no protests, no flag burning, no nothing. The useless landcape around us is the fact that no one gives a shit about anything yet people still have the gumption to talk to me about Greenpeace.

You can wear a sarong if you want
For no reason at all.
But to wear a sarong
You've got to feel a sarong
And be in a place
To think about wearing a sarong
Not, like, blenders, or anything like that
If you opt to be a sponge
Soak, soak, soak it up.
You'll get filled and wet
But won't think about wearing a sarong.

It's hard to step back to the tides of Whimsy to feel young, surprised, and prosperous. I have the ideal living situation with perfect people doing perfect thing but Kesey was right, "the combine is everywhere." Something is chasing us, beating us into submission and we don't even know it. It's possible to throw off this beast for a few hours but if you want to break it down, crumbling it into mere veneer and taste the full vibrancy of a peach, all out assault is the only way to go. I'm not strong enough to wrestle my demons away. If I'm going to get the life I want the only solution is to live the life I want. Every second. Everyday.

I want to ramble into town with a pocket full of Nickels and tell stories. Why the hell not?

In short, come August, Jeff and I are moving into an RV and shaping life as we'd like to have it. It's short-cited as fuck, ultimately childish, and ridiculous past the point of ridicule. It's absolutely perfect. Dissatisfaction's boring. BORING BORING BORING. A Jar of Mayonaise no one bothers to eat but stares at anyway. Riding around in a careening husk of metal adorned with frescoes of screaming children and blaring Beyonce's "Single Ladies" as we roll into a new town, well lubricated on the sweet nectar of "Why Not?", is the only way to play out the hand.

You're all invited.