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

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.