This is my Grandfather, Lawrence Pion. When he retired in 2000, he was one of four remaining newspaper printers in North America to still use analog equipment. His knowledge of the printing process, paper and the associated equipment is unmatched. His twilight years are being spent in northern British Columbia, mostly building a house, he is building it out of trees that he has fallen and hand milled into lumber. He will be 69 years old next month.

my digital camera responded poorly to a room composed of solely the color red.

no teeth

no hygene

no home

plenty of full print T’s/fresh denim

One afternoon, I had been sitting in front of my computer for a couple hours while nursing a severe headache. I was convinced that I could smell something burning but couldn’t find the source. I smelled around my computer, investigated the refrigerator and stove and everything else electric in my apartment. Then I decided it was the headache playing tricks on my brain. And THEN I thought “Jesus Christ, this is it… I am having a stroke. Right? People always say that a a person who is stroking out can smell burnt toast while it happens. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is it! This is it! This is how it’s going to end.” I could smell burnt toast and my brain felt like somebody filled my skull with drunk scorpions. I thought of writing a note to my loved ones before my imminent death but then scraped the idea, trumped by the powerful philosophy: “Fuck It”. I’m the one dying! Let those left living, idly guess about how I felt about them at the funeral reception. I wasn’t dying anyways, in fact, my neighbor had left his stove on before he went to work. I’m not sure, but I suppose that there must have been something in the oven because the entire floor of the building was filled with smoke and it was billowing out of his windows into the summer sky. Idiot. I managed two photos before being cajoled back into my apartment while the firemen fought the good fight and extinguished whatever there was to be extinguished in the apartment. I guess I learned something from this; I learned that the building manager is a very tolerant women, because this asshole set his place on fire and wasn’t evicted. And I used to get nervous about smoking inside! Ridiculous.

Both my digital camera and my scanner went down simultaneously, so this blog will be nothing more than a barren wasteland until I sort out these problems. Also, I’m not totally convinced that people actually read/scroll through this website anyways, but if you do, then there are dozens of backdated posts to look for yourselves in.

Barnge.

I recently bought a tape recorder and have been covertly recording conversations. These posts will feature both the banal and the juicy. All names have been omitted to protect the innocent.

“So he looked at me and he’s like, ‘double?'”

I said ‘yeah’. Then he just like, started pouring.”

He mimes tipping a bottle upside down.

“And then, schhhh.”

He mimes adding a small amount of coke with a soda gun.

“Here ya go.”

“So just like a little dash of coke on top of the bourbon?”

“I just said thank you.” (laughs)

“What do they ordinarily think a double is?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are singles to them? Only a half glass full? Or do they just pour and hope for the best?”

“I guess so. These guys in here said it was weird, they said at every bar they’ve been to so far up here, everybody measures everything.  They don’t do that in the states apparently.

“They just free pour?”

Nods. “At the only bar I went to they did. I just thought it was strange.”