R.I.P. MJ

Yesterday, circa 6PM.

I was lolling around the house and toying with a basketball when I decided to head to the kitchen. Before I could arrive in the kitchen, an electricity burst through my being, freezing me in place. The feeling spread through me. I couldn't move or see. If it hadn't been for the chance of laying a hand on a nearby chair, I would've fallen over; collapsing on the carpet to be licked by a dog. The feeling escalated. My eyes went blind and my mind was immersed in a blitzkrieg white aura of electric light. I'd felt this feeling before--when nearing mortality's edge.

I was terrified when I emerged. Fearing another medical episode was near I stood completely still for several minutes. Then I received a text message. Like a good citizen of the 21st Century and Pavlovically programmed to boot, I went over to check the text. It was from my Mom. "MJ had died."

I'm pretty sure I felt him pass.

Weird.

Goodbye Michael.

I'll remember dancing to Motown as a little kid, throwing myself against the couch cushions to the sounds of his pre-pubescent voice. Michael was the definition of Superstar as I came up. His aura and presence, made the world a far more interesting place. Listen to some early Jackson 5. Hear his tender-sweet voice on ABC or Rockin' Robin. The sounds are synesthetic. I know those emotions, the experience of being a heart-broken phenom is close at hand. It's impossible not to be thankful for such a person's existence.

From finding the Great Narrative in Earth Song to dancing with 12 years olds, Michael's been in the musical landscape.

Blare Beat It and wave goodbye to the soundtrack of our lives.

Call Wacko!

I recently found something that filled a profound gap in my existence.

When I threw up blood I happened to throw up blood on my favorite pair of black basketball shorts. I would've proudly worn my bloodshed but Brock and Appu have higher standards for my sartorial choices and opted to throw them out. Since I don't cash my paychecks I spent today conniving a way to obtain a pair of black basketball shorts. Then, I found a pair on the basketball court. Wee!

That's not what I meant to talk about it all but things escape sometimes, like dreams in the night.

The profound gap in my existence has been filled by an intern. My intern is Nick Olah. So far his responsibilities have included discussing the NBA Draft and making prank phone calls for legitimate business reasons. He's leaving a negligible effect on the finished product as am I in a weird way but his presence alleviates the monotony of waiting in a library or filling a prescription. Crossing the lakelike threshold of a business day in Michigan Summer Swelter, we move with brisk business like strokesm, flecking the day with fun by way of sojourns to Arby's for free Arby's. (Blogging about Arby's is copyright of Beavette).

Today. We were picking up a prescription when a Yellow Pick-Up Truck caught our attention. Emblazoned on the back of the pick up truck was a Demon with an eye popping out of his socket. It dangled down to a small logo that read "Call Wacko" then listed a phone number.

We called Wacko immediately. He picked up with a voice that sounded like Malt Liquor. "What's up dude?" was his trademark beckon. Nick asked "What's up?" Nothing was going on with Wacko.

We called again. I discussed the possibility of him doing a "tatt-oooooo" of the Hindenburg on my back. He was a perceptive listener at first but my flamboyant pronounciation of "tattoo" drew his scorn. He swiftly hung up returning to waxing his boat, gelling his goatee, punching Dogs, and other activities of the Wacko. The Wacko does not tread lightly. He moves through this life, taking his desires and no prisoners. Sex on the first date? Never. Wacko has sex before the first date, before he even meets you. That's how the Wacko rolls.

His football shaped eyes are that of an Artist. His football shaped gut is that of a Patriot. He smokes Camel Wides as he swims in above ground pool. He has had fourteen tattoo removal surgeries so he can "redo the canvas with sum current shit." He's removed an American Flag for Ronald McDonald. The portrait of his mother has been editied into Brandon Inge. Brandon Inge is the troll-like Third Baseman for the Detroit Tigers. Before this season his bat left something to be desired but his hustle and defensive acumen have branded him as a "scrapper", a status that nestled him between the clogged arteries of White Trash Hearts throughout Southeastern Michigan. Inge is having the best season of his career, elevating him to deity status. Since season's inception Wacko has added wings, horns, and a spatula to his Inge tattoo.

I called Wacko again. It went straight to voicemail.

"This is Wacko. You know what to do."

Yes I do. All thanks to you.

Viva La Responsibilite

After spending the regular season and playoffs in the guise of a fan aspiring to be a Sports Writer, I've shelved this approach of witnessing. As it stands, I've viewed every game on the NBA finals through the Imagivision, which is similar to Disney 3-D in it's impressive composition. This seat (the best in the house) allows me to enjoy the game while paying no attention as I shift into long-winded bullshit with comrades.

Examples of potential bullshit:
-Trying to make the most disturbing drawing I can. Asking Heidi to do the same. Hanging drawings on the refrigerator.
-Debating how much pizza to get.
-Wondering why humans enjoy sports?
-Debating the foundation of ambition.

Now, if there was one thing I could be it'd be a professional athlete. First, playing games is fun. Second, you get to do so in Arenas brimming with fans, their screams forever distorting your sense of hearing but exacerbating your sense of self. Third, you get to look cool doing it. Dwight5 Howard wears an array of arm bands that provide no medical need but make him look buff. I do the same thing. Serious pick up football games are played on the Weekends in Dearborn. As the biggest player and best receiver, I dress to intimidate and scare, often opting for a Women's Lions Tank Top. It is the rare item that can make a man appear buff while accentuating his cleavage.

The best moments come chasing down a stray ball. These are bliss like only Joshua Tree or Skylake can provide but they aren't what I get excited about. When I imagine these games the lot of us are dressed like warriors, engaging in camraderie, etc. In short, we act like morons. Sheltered kids making believe to become football players.

I write. I want to be a writer. I try to only write when I'm feeling inspired. This helps the writing but does not help me become a writer. I'm pretty obsessed with purity. I've played the game of wanting to become something and found it extremely unsatisfactory. This is why I haven't sent the novel out. It's also part of the reason I'm living in my Mother's basement. Doing things for the right reasons? Honoring thy muse? What's the importance of all this except to self-sanctify?

The world is open to possibility. This lends itself to ambition. Ambition usually comes in two forms. 1) I enjoy doing something and want to make a career of it. 2) I'd like to be something. It seems cool and would maybe help me get laid.

I'm a big proponent of number one but it is called into question. Last night, I was thinking of all the roles within the Earth. Filmmakers produce visual media for others to intake. Mailmen distribute our memos. Computer Technicians do something vague that no one actually understands. With infinite cogs it is noble to deem a role as your path or is it better to fall into it? Human beings do a lot of strange things. If you were to forget all and see civilization as it sprouted would you ever imagine that this is what we become? Operations have shifted to super-scale with everyone more or less playing the game of reputation. This used to be the thing I feared most about becoming. Why not? They are making movies of Board Games! Board Games!

I'm not sure I can express this thought. I'll just be someone and my standing will tell it for me.

Hey Ross!

A Letter To My Friend Jeffrey LaPenna

(Author's Note: I'd like to start a new feature on the site in which the four fathers of NewHindenburg to share epistles on various life experiences, food eaten, and train rides)

Dearest Jeff,

Greetings from Dearborn, Michigan. I write this from the sanctity of my Mother's basement where I have a humble set up. Despite my cheerful decor, a basement is always a basement and I'm resigned to the fact that I'm working from home this week. These dank doldrums are a far cry from what I expect to find in San Francisco, working freelance (and part-time at Chili's) wherever dollas flow.

This past weekend was the Memorial Day three-day orgy of fun reserved for praising our Military Men and Women. Labor Day is a similar day but it always makes me think of the Masons, of you high society scamps. I spent the first two days playing on a felled tree in the middle of a lake before returning for Detroit's Movement Festival, essentially a three day long rave that doubles as a tourist destination.

Somethings you should know about Movement:
-It is not an ordinary rave as fat suburbanites troll the grounds with novelty beer cups.
-I spent most of the evening alone as I got self-conscious and wandered off.
-I was dressed in a green unitard.
-This was severely out of place.

There were color festives but my form clinging ensemble instantly branded me as "Green Man" a status I was intimately unsure of. Walking into the fest, I bought a wristband off a woman for the discount price of twenty dollars, a sound investment if you ask me.

I've recently, in addled states become very self-conscious. Without the aid of alcohol, means of ingesting confidence are few and far between, a situation exacerbated by the presence of prescription Adderall in my blood stream. I've been on the med since year eight and accept it as the medium for doing work, attaining focus, etc. To have it at a place of dance made me a step slow, the very picture of trepidation. Also, as the picture of weirdness, I was without my brothers in arms--namely you, Nick, Brock, Heidi, Ross, Hoopster, et. all--so when the first person approached me and asked "Where's your head?" I was without applicable response to their disappointment at my level of Greendom. I shirked them off with eyes pointed downward and a feeble grin. I hoped this was the last of my encounters. It was not.

Every few minutes, I would be stopped by strangers exclaiming "Green Man" and extending their hands for high fives. I was in no mood to high five. You are intimately familiar with the film Podding (Olah 2008) seen here in which we depict the otherworldly friendship between Todd Kent, a humble Southerner, and Fenkel, a curious Alien from the Planet Schizanafrottoma. In the film, Fenkel helps Todd gain necessary confidence so he can ask a girl on a date but Todd's exploits leave Fenkel alone on the foreboding planet known as Earth. Similarly attired, I felt the exact same as Fenkel though I stopped short of murdering a priest.

Those approaching me were not the giggly sort commonly associated with raves. On the contrary, my new found friends were drunk hillbillies. That's what happens when the underground goes mainstream. As the flagship event in the Metropolitan Detroit Area, the specter of Movement beamed to pleasure seekers off all ilks, eager to frolic to bass beat grooves and revel in the conspicuously constructed scene I had unwittingly become an inextricable part of. I brought a change of clothes but it was far off in the car and I'd lost my ride. Fenkel it would have to be.

I took in a lovely set at something called the Red Bull stage. As it was densely packed I was limited to jumping up and down for the most part. The oddest tangent was that I danced for five hours and didn't sweat at all. I went for a run this morning and didn't sweat either. Is it problematic for one to stop sweating? I hope not. I find the reduced rate of showers needed refreshing. Refreshing as a shower. I have the same feeling with or without bathing.

The Unitard brought a great deal of attention from the lady folk. Like a crowd surfing woman, my body was open to digital exploration, specifically my ass. A woman came up and grabbed before asking, "Can I grab you again?" I was slow and sort of stared at her as she tweaked my cheek again. A few moments later, three women brushed their fingers against my stomach while cooing odes of "You look fantastic." I offered disagreement. They combated with additional accolades. I don't include these anecdotes as means of ego boosting. It was the most awkward I've ever felt. On a side note, I've gained insight into how Nico operates. This is a good thing for our planned business venture. I thought of Ross and how he would take advantage of these overtures. I'm no Ross Godwin, mon frere. I'd say thank you and little else. Is there an applicable response to a friendly tough? Is it possible for an unanticipated touch to be friendly? I hope you can answer me with these questions.

Sometime thereafter, I went to the bathroom and took a break on a grassy knoll near the port-a-toilets. An older woman of Polish descent approached and we had the following conversation.

Her: Nice outfit.
Me: Thanks. I'm an Alien.
Her: You ever been to Vancouver?
Me: No.
Her: I bet you'd love it in Vancouver.
Me: Why's that?
Her: They have these six people in unitards, one for every color of the rainbow, and they jump on trampolines together.
Me: Yeah, I'm looking for the rest of the spectrum right now.
Her: You can look it up on the Internet if you want.

A few minutes later I was approached by a young couple that requested a photograph. They showed me the front page of the Detroit Free Press in which featured a story on Movement accompanied by the photo of a man in a Green Unitard. Apparently, he was something of a logo for the event, which explained the additional attention throw my way. After they passed a man sidled up and whispered "You attention whore." I wanted to stop him and explain my relationship with unitards but he walked away before I could give him a talking to.

The human being is a far-strung construction with infinite complications within our own minds but to outsiders we are boiled down as such. I will use you as an example. As this is an example I will not focus on giving you the credit due to one of the World's best people and will analyze you like a basketball analyst analyzes the game of a given player (Tom Chambers and Dan Majerle in your case as Bryan and I previously explored )

Jeff LaPenna is my friend. He is Italian, makes movies, and has an artistic eye pointed towards the world. This artistic eye gives him strength but puts him at odds with reality. He enjoys being a manly man in the Outdoors. He is very strange and would jump at the chance to become an Alien. He uses his beard as a social tool and can be known to wear a hat from time to time. Come September, we are moving into an RV together for an artistic regiment, strange lifestyle, and loads of laughs.

I am Joel Walkowski. I like to feel a moment's invincibility and attain this feeling by doing things people don't normally do. I have a long standing relationship with Unitards that is reinforced through the enthusiasm of various friends. I thrive on the attention of others but only those close to my heart. Without these people I become aloof and reflective in a weird way that my family doesn't understand. To wit: My mother and I shared coffee this afternoon and she asked the fairly normal query of "What are you thinking about?"

I answered honestly. "If I could turn into a Dog, I could probably make a very good living as a Dog Actor in movies. I could go to an Open Mic night in Hollywood, show my abilities, and it would spread like wildfire. I'd be the man who doubles as a Dog Actor. The thing I don't know is whether or not it'd help or hurt me in getting girls. Fame would help but the idea of being with someone who is sometimes a dog could be quite disconcerting to some."

That's me in a nutshell. I suppose. But back to the festival.

Someone told me "The Green Man" is a fixture on the popular television show "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia". A good Samaritan went so far as to tell me the channel (FX) and air time (10:00 Eastern Standard). He told me I had to watch it. I viewed the episode in question. A man accidentally ingests Acid in the parking lot of Philadelphia Eagle tryouts and becomes "Green Man". Does this disqualify Green Man as my rave name? Am I already Pringle Man?

Shortly thereafter, I ran into the other Green Man. We shared a hug, a magical moment, and a dance off. It was a beautiful moment in the fraternity of those concurrent scantily clad and fully dressed.

I fell in with a group of Ravers who were "tasting the colors" so to speak. We danced in a circle for a half hour or so until it became time to remove my sunglasses. I didn't have pockets. I didn't want them bulging into my form. I put them on the ground, abandoning them. They were immediately returned. I tried the tactic again. They were, again, immediately returned. "You're so weird" they told me.

The night was colorful enough but fuck the scene, fuck being some sideshow. I went in the middle of a dance floor and went crazy for a couple hours. Ross would've been proud.

Beware the rave,
Joel

Say "Yeah Dog" In A Slightly High Voice

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

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

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

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

The things you can learn from crawl spaces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nicholas Coppola: Spolier of Victor

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

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

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

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

If Murdered I'll Know Who Dun It?

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

It worked then and it works now.


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

Yeah, like so what, if I'm lame

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

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

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

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

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

UPDATE

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

Goodbye Little Dude.

Fun With Holes and Not Fun With Holes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• Drink
  

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

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

Part one.


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

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

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

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

…………………………………

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quiet.
Quiet.
Quiet.
Quiet.
Quie

That's when he told us about The Aliens.

Om Ara Bha Sa Na Dhhhhhhiiiii

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

Personal Integrity IE Walking your talk.

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

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

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

Most birds.

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

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

The Crow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NewHindenburg's NonBasketball Playoff Preview!!!

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

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

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

Holla up mas negroles? 

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

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

Joel Walkowski is an eruption of blood waiting to happen. 

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

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

Drinking? Gone. 

Dipping? Gone. 

Sword Swallowing? Gone. 

I feel really great about all of this. 

NEW OPINIONS GLEANED FRROM CALIFORNIA HOSPITAL

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

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

Oh, Tony!

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

*IV's are best inserted in the wrist. 

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

*Not eating for four days might be worse, 

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

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

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

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

*They were stunning. Fuck.