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.”

Roster:

Jess (master of men’s hobbies)

Bogdan (Ukrainian woodsman)

Robbie (a hippy; constantly protesting something or another)

Now, it has been suggested in the past that I am not the outdoorsy type, and to be fair, I certainly don’t look very outdoorsy when in my own natural habitat. After all, a subterranean pool hall in the middle of a prepubescent city is a far cry from the tranquility found in a forest, but this conclusion is absolutely erroneous. In fact, I enjoy camping a great deal, that is, I enjoy this kind of camping a great deal. I don’t go camping very often, mostly because I can’t stand campsites. I have a fundamental problem with campsites, with the rules, the restrictions, the gypo prices and the suppression of alcohol fueled debauchery. For example: if a man desires to fill a beer can with toilet paper and kerosene, nail it to a plank of buoyant wood, stuff an air bomb in the mouth of the can, then set it adrift in the middle of a lake at night and put it under fire by way of a roman candle… Then he should be allowed to do so. He should be allowed to watch it burn. The last description was a taste of the fun one can have while alone in the woods; completely separated from the suffocation found in an urban environment. Oh right, I ought to finish that example, one of the flares born from the roman candle lit the kerosene ablaze, which in turn lit the air bomb, sending the firework sailing into the night air where it exploded with an ear shattering bang. I’m quite sure that no one else heard the explosion except for us. So now I’m sure that you’ve figured out that I do in fact purely enjoy camping. If you care to know, that’s it, but why would this information make any difference to anyone else? The answer doesn’t matter, because I’m going to write about it anyways. Okay, where was I? Oh right, something about how great it is to get away from metal, glass, brick and mortar.

We were well equipped for the trip, the only pity was found in the fact that we had but one night to spend away on this particular trip. We had the right tents and sleeping bags, lanterns, flashlights, fishing rods, plenty of cold beer, cask strength scotch and great food. All of our food was cooked over an open flame, the way it was intended to be done. We ate steaks and smokies, all of which were grilled to perfection in a drunken stupor, these culinary marvles were followed by potato salad that was eaten directly from the container. It is well known that the best meals are cooked over a fire while swaying back and forth trying to keep your balance.

In the morning I awoke sometime around 10am feeling well rested and only vaguely hungover. My first act of business was to walk to the lake in nothing but my one piece stanfield, open the fly, and then piss into the glass water that stretched out before me. The sun was out and the air was pleasantly brisk. I finished, buttoned up and lit a cigarette. I checked my fishing line that I had cast out into the darkness of the night before. Nothing. It didn’t matter whether a fish was on the line or not, it rarely does, it is simply an exercise in relaxation. I reeled the line in and cast again. There was no chance of catching anything. A fish hadn’t even surfaced throughout the whole time I had spent watching the lake. It was completely still, rarely was there even a ripple rolling around out there. In fact the only movement to be seen was the effect of some wayward pellet fire. Jess had the brilliant foresight to bring with him a pellet gun. I was suprised that the thing was strong enough to break bottles. The bottles, much like the floating bomb, were usually filled with kerosene and lit at the top like a candle. We were lucky to be there in January, everything was a little damp, and we managed not to burn down half the forest by accident. We did however manage to fall a tree. When I started at the tree the night before I couldn’t see the top of it in the fire light. I hacked and chopped until my hands were bloodied and then gave into the drink and went to sleep. When the morning came I got a good look at my progress from the night before and it was within a dozen swings from falling. Jess, the son of a bitch, took the final swing. The tree came crashing down and landed mostly in the lake. Such a satisfying sight to watch. If any bleeding heart environmentalist doesn’t like that, then I guess, that is simply too bad.

FACT: Chopping down a tree feels good and you’re missing out. In fact, for every one person who takes offense to this story, I’m going to chop down another and carve your name in it.  Oh, and for each vegan who takes exception or offense to the grilling and consumption of meat, I am going to introduce a new animal into my diet and name the dish after them.

The art of shaving is something that I only need to exercise every week and a half. It looks like this:

Three-cushion billiards

In three-cushion billiards, sometimes called three-cushion carom, the object is to carom off both object balls with at least three rail cushions being contacted before the contact of the cue ball with the second object ball. Three-cushion is a very difficult game. Averaging one point per inning is professional-level play, and averaging 1.5 to 2 is world-class play. An average of one means that for every turn at the table, a player makes 1 point and misses once, thus making a point on 50% of his or her shots. As of 2007, the high run record is 31 points, shared between Semih Saygıner of Turkey and Hugo Patiño who is originally from Colombia but resides in the US.

The origin of the game is not entirely known. It is undisputed that one Wayman Crow McCreery of St. Louis, Missouri popularized the game in the 1870s. The first three-cushion billiards tournament took place January 14–31, 1878 in St. Louis, with McCreery a participant and New Yorker Leon Magnus the winner. The high run for the tournament was just 6 points, and the high average a 0.75. The game was infrequently played, with many top carom players of the era voicing their dislike of it, until after the 1907 introduction of the Lambert Trophy. By 1924, three-cushion had become so popular that two giants in other billiard disciplines agreed to take up the game especially for a challenge match. On September 22, 1924, Willie Hoppe, the world’s balkline champion (who later took up three-cushion with a passion), and Ralph Greenleaf, the world’s straight pool title holder, played a well advertised, multi-day, match to 600 points. Hoppe was the eventual winner with a final score in of 600–527.

Three-cushion billiards retains great popularity in parts of Europe, Asia, and Latin America, and is the most popular carom billiards game played in the US today, where pool is far more widespread. The principal governing body of the sport is the Union Mondiale de Billard (UMB). It had been staging world three-cushion championships since the late 1920s. The International Olympic Committee-recognized World Pool-Billiard Association (WPA) cooperates with the UMB to keep their rulesets synchronized.

wikipedia