Saturday, September 17, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
White People Problems
Complaining about getting your order wrong at a restaurant and not politely telling the waiter about it. So you wait, pissed, chatting with your group/your shitty/ girlfriend/wife about how crappy the service is here. As time passes, you grow increasingly frustrated and you're intermittently taking it out on the waiter, who had nothing to do with the construct of your over-priced and shitty food. Every time he comes by, you say nothing about what you've ordered but you shoot quips at him about how hes not doing his job "up to par" (white people love using golf lingo in everyday situations). As you finish, you're pissed---your night is ruined. You go to pay and you finally say, "you got my order wrong blah blah blah....i want a discount or a refund". They give it to you, your meal fully comped and you leave, without giving the waiter a tip.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Piss.
It really baffles me how a man that has been pissing with over fifty years of experience can miss the toilet.
This was the deciding factor of my death.
You may ask yourself "How is this possible, Mr. Narrator?"
Simple! I say! Simple as putting your keys into the ignition of the car you once drove. Simple as having that one extra beer you used to enjoy. Simple as fucking breathing in fact. I'm pretty sure my instance of death is very much like most falls that happen in the bathroom and some are even fortunate enough to survive.
It has happened to you, probably most frequently in the shower. You let one foot up and whoops! You almost fall but you catch yourself and say something about how close that was.
I didn't have that opportunity. Let me paint the picture.
I had just got home from work at about 230 am and was doing nighttime routine so I don't break out or wake up with sore teeth. My knee had been killing me from running around an office building for 9ish hours earlier and i decide to stretch it out. I pull left leg up and do the balance hop and what do you know? I slip on the wet floor and get severe blunt force trauma on the way down. You know that little nubby spot on the back of your skull that feels super sensitive and sometimes imagine horrible, penetrate-y things destroying this guy? My skull got shattered there, sending bits of fragmented skull into my occipital lobe. With Mr. O.L. being destroyed, I instantly go blind and I can feel the blood pooling around me and there isn't a fucking thing I could do. I couldn't move. My thoughts? My girlfriend, my mom, my friends, my little brother who will find me in the morning and my dad's piss that left me in this situation. The coroner will determine it as blunt force trauma that did me in and won't find the piss that had dried. They will rule it as an accident as they do all of these bathroom mishaps and I will be added to the household injuries----->bathroom accident statistic and the best part is that no one will know what happened. But let me tell you something, there is one other person who knows what happened; I told him to aim a little bit fucking better next time he took a piss in the hall bathroom.
This was the deciding factor of my death.
You may ask yourself "How is this possible, Mr. Narrator?"
Simple! I say! Simple as putting your keys into the ignition of the car you once drove. Simple as having that one extra beer you used to enjoy. Simple as fucking breathing in fact. I'm pretty sure my instance of death is very much like most falls that happen in the bathroom and some are even fortunate enough to survive.
It has happened to you, probably most frequently in the shower. You let one foot up and whoops! You almost fall but you catch yourself and say something about how close that was.
I didn't have that opportunity. Let me paint the picture.
I had just got home from work at about 230 am and was doing nighttime routine so I don't break out or wake up with sore teeth. My knee had been killing me from running around an office building for 9ish hours earlier and i decide to stretch it out. I pull left leg up and do the balance hop and what do you know? I slip on the wet floor and get severe blunt force trauma on the way down. You know that little nubby spot on the back of your skull that feels super sensitive and sometimes imagine horrible, penetrate-y things destroying this guy? My skull got shattered there, sending bits of fragmented skull into my occipital lobe. With Mr. O.L. being destroyed, I instantly go blind and I can feel the blood pooling around me and there isn't a fucking thing I could do. I couldn't move. My thoughts? My girlfriend, my mom, my friends, my little brother who will find me in the morning and my dad's piss that left me in this situation. The coroner will determine it as blunt force trauma that did me in and won't find the piss that had dried. They will rule it as an accident as they do all of these bathroom mishaps and I will be added to the household injuries----->bathroom accident statistic and the best part is that no one will know what happened. But let me tell you something, there is one other person who knows what happened; I told him to aim a little bit fucking better next time he took a piss in the hall bathroom.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Mad Scientist Part 1!!
He stood in his lab, lighting each smoke with the one before. Observing his work, he was filled with something close to pride. The bomb was small enough to fit in a briefcase and could kill millions if placed in the right spot. Say, a metropolitan city would do just fine. But the bomb was intended for just one, and if it killed more in the process the news would say terrorism, collateral damage, tragedy. These words meant little to the man, the one in the lab who chain smokes without discretion. He was unconcerned with worldly matters, taxes and television and parties, that was all Earthly bullshit. This was war, and there wasn't time for such things that did nothing. He lived for something bigger than himself, unknown to his fellow citizens who would die for the love of a single person, which is really dying for the self. They knew nothing and He knew nothing, only that he loved his laboratory. The instruments clicking and humming, all this work only to destroy. He was having doubts, but nothing substantial enough to change his mind. He wore glasses and hated contacts. He suffered from cluster headaches and took Tylenol 3 for them, a bit of Codeine to smooth out the edges. His veins were dark and scarred from needles and one ear was missing a piece, from a knife fight he could no longer recollect.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
CALISKATZ Day @ Ceres Skatepark
Not right that the shop closed down. Remember to ONLY support your local skater-owned and operated shops.
Evan Bland Edit
Evan is one of my good friends and kills it on the plank. He's a hilarious dude with a really smooth, effortless style and it's hard not to have a good time when you're with him. So here's a wicked sweet part of Evan killing it at the Vacaville Park and a few other local spots. The Back tail bigspin in the Costco line is proper.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
fuck the phone, your facebook is tapped
Base.
How low can we go?
Fuck the Beatles, I'm an animal
An upright ape with opposable thumbs
To hold the clubs
To hold the guns
Swing low sweet chariot
God bless my DNA
Drunk drive my Chevy to the levee
Let the flood come and sweep me away
No this ain't the apocalypse
It's the way shit has always been
From Sodom to Saddam
Attila to Tienenmen
A quarter million years of human being
A quarter million years as a human stain
We use ten percent of our gorgeous brains
And leave the rest up to cocaine
Lucy in the sky
Got her hands on a new shotgun
Lucy in the sky
Got her hands on a Remington
Lucy in the sky
Her shiny diamonds drenched in blood
And I know where the wild things are
Don't look far
Don't look far
'Cause I got wisdom in my teeth
And terror in my wars
Yes, I know where the wild things are
Don't look far.
Don't look far.
There's a reason that it's hard to look in the mirror.
There's a reason that it's hard to go to the zoo
And there's a reason you want to pry open the cage
See, you should be there, too.
How low can we go?
Fuck the Beatles, I'm an animal
An upright ape with opposable thumbs
To hold the clubs
To hold the guns
Swing low sweet chariot
God bless my DNA
Drunk drive my Chevy to the levee
Let the flood come and sweep me away
No this ain't the apocalypse
It's the way shit has always been
From Sodom to Saddam
Attila to Tienenmen
A quarter million years of human being
A quarter million years as a human stain
We use ten percent of our gorgeous brains
And leave the rest up to cocaine
Lucy in the sky
Got her hands on a new shotgun
Lucy in the sky
Got her hands on a Remington
Lucy in the sky
Her shiny diamonds drenched in blood
And I know where the wild things are
Don't look far
Don't look far
'Cause I got wisdom in my teeth
And terror in my wars
Yes, I know where the wild things are
Don't look far.
Don't look far.
There's a reason that it's hard to look in the mirror.
There's a reason that it's hard to go to the zoo
And there's a reason you want to pry open the cage
See, you should be there, too.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Two Paths for the Novel
Interesting article about lyrical realism falling short.
"These aren’t particularly healthy times. A breed of lyrical Realism has had the freedom of the highway for some time now, with most other exits blocked. For Netherland, our receptive pathways are so solidly established that to read this novel is to feel a powerful, somewhat dispiriting sense of recognition. It seems perfectly done—in a sense that’s the problem. It’s so precisely the image of what we have been taught to value in fiction that it throws that image into a kind of existential crisis, as the photograph gifts a nervous breakdown to the painted portrait"
Two Paths for the Novel | The New York Review of Books
"These aren’t particularly healthy times. A breed of lyrical Realism has had the freedom of the highway for some time now, with most other exits blocked. For Netherland, our receptive pathways are so solidly established that to read this novel is to feel a powerful, somewhat dispiriting sense of recognition. It seems perfectly done—in a sense that’s the problem. It’s so precisely the image of what we have been taught to value in fiction that it throws that image into a kind of existential crisis, as the photograph gifts a nervous breakdown to the painted portrait"
Two Paths for the Novel | The New York Review of Books
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