US Open 2003 As Seen Through The Jaded Eyes Of NTW, Part I
The weekend started out (mid-week) with a bang. Lots of old friends from Burlington flew back East for the festivities. Negative B blew into town first – always good to see E. Rose back in VT. Gotta let the big dog bark… Had a couple great dinners and catching-up sessions with expatriates Rose, JAred, The One Sue Lee, Tevis, Michaylira, and Bridges, along with locals Chaka, Layslie, Dabica, Ally, and the notoriously hermit-like Lance Violette.
Rose, Layslie and I drove down to Stratton on Friday afternoon. We dropped Layslie off at her hotel and then nipped down to the Four Star house, where Rose and I were planning on staying. Unfortunately, the place was completely over-run with the YoungBloods (word) and a revolving crew of underage and uninvited monkeys. After being relegated to the frat-house style basement, we set off to the Rail Jam at the Sun Bowl.
The Rail Jam was so-so, to be honest. Travis Rice won. All I know is that I froze my nuts off, and was glad to escape, especially since I spent most of the contest lurking by myself.
We nipped back to the house for a bit before heading into the village for the evening’s festivities. After plying the few over-21 types (and the Dingo) with some Sauza, we piled into a big-ass SUV and hit Grizzly’s. The party was pretty goddamn fun. Everyone showed up and had a blast. I didn’t even get kicked out. McGurk had the quote of the night: “Michael Jackson sure brings the sluts out of woodwork!” He was proved right seconds later…
The bar shut down a bit early, so I was forced to employ a few patented NTW moves to make sure I was adequately oblitherated. After a lame attempt at hitting an after-party (TIP: make sure you get the room number AND THE HOTEL – it’s no fun banging on the right door if it’s in the wrong goddamn building), I ended up snoring like a maniac walrus all night on Chaka’s floor.
Saturday came soon enough, and after squirreling a ride down the access road (thanks, Karen) to the house, Rose and I evacuated our belongings and collected Cavan (who, by the way, now holds the world record for going from a complete stupor passed out on a couch to “Ready To Go” – about 15 seconds total). Wisely, we parked in the main parking lot and scored a ride over to the Sun Bowl in a van piloted by the King of All Shoobs. His lyrics were astounding – all types of shit about lesbian sheriffs, regular lesbians, non-lesbian sheriffs, the takeover of Stratton by lesbians, etc. Actually, I guess it was all pretty much about lesbians. He definitely earned the ridiculous $10 tip I gave him - I laughed my ass off.
As far as the pipe contest went, highlights included Rose getting kicked out of a tree, JD’s battle over a 93-94 banner with a fascist Stratton drone (he eventually won), the “Carter Snowboards” stickers, McVeigh producing a miracle beer (at least as far as I was concerned), Bridges’ ability to bond with all rednecks, and the Incredible And Very Un-Shy Pissing In The Woods Chick Who Might Want To Think About Visiting A Tanning Booth (might be some video on www.negativeb.com of that particular episode sometime soon…) Ross won, Daniel was third, and the thoroughly mind-blowing Kazu Kokubo snagged second. Gretchen “the Crippler” Bleiler won the women’s contest with some seriously stepped-up shit.
Most Egregious Travel Error of the Weekend goes to the team manager (whose identity, in the interests of fair play and all that, shall go unrevealed) that inexplicably took NINE hours to cover the ground between Albany and Stratton. This trip usually takes 2 hours; needless to say, he was a bit tight-lipped over the exact details of the journey...
More tomorrow….
posted by John Patrick Bowles at 1:27 AM
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Big US Open 2003 post coming soon. For now, just this tidbit:
Best quote of the US Open, shouted menacingly at Negative B by either GM or Rocket Reeves as we bumped into them in the lobby of the Stratton Mountain Inn on Friday night: "US Rrrrropen'!" You know what I'm sayin'.
posted by John Patrick Bowles at 8:51 PM
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Aaahh, women. They make us crazy, but that's why we love them. And those damn little tummy-revealing tops don't help at all. Especially the white ones. Rrrowwr.
On a totally different and much more serious note...
A word about the death of Jeff Anderson. I didn't know him at all, really. I did party with him a few times at the Open, and he seemed like a really nice kid; not your average up-and-comer punk. He'd been on the scene since he was a kid, so I guess that's what made him a little different.... He made a bad decision and it cost him his life. Think about that the next time you fuck around... We are all here for a very short time, and the decisions we make affect that. As stupid and cliched as it sounds, for God's sake, look before you leap.
posted by John Patrick Bowles at 3:36 AM
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For once, I'll throw a little politics up in this piece, just because I feel so strongly about this particular subject.
Why are people "annoyed" with this "crush" of anti-war protestors? Also, why do the celebrities speaking out against it especially annoy people?
I take great exception to the inference that Democrats who oppose the idea of Iraq being so great a threat to the USA that we must go to war are taking that position solely out of a desire to defy Governor Bush. Many Democrats voted to give Governor Bush the power to go to war back in October, but that was with the caveat of his proving that Saddam was an imminent threat to the American people, and with the backing of the UN. He has utterly failed to do that. Utterly.
The argument that Democrats would support this sort of thing under Clinton's watch is fundamentally flawed in that Bill Clinton would NEVER have pursued a course of action as insane as this. Fuck an intern, yes. Lie about fucking that intern, sure. Go medieval on a Saddam Hussein so contained that he makes Jose Padilla look like Hunter Thompson in "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" for spite and oil? No fucking way.
I defy anyone to point out a single instance of Iraqi belligerence that has threatened the people of the United States, or, indeed, any of Iraq's own neighbors since Saddam got his ass kicked (and yes, I also wish, in retrospect, that we had beaten him all the way back to Baghdad in '91, but that is neither here nor there) after the Gulf War. He is happy to be a murderous and filthy bastard within his borders. This is a horrible thing, yes. But a danger to you and I and our friends and our families as we sleep in our beds at night? A reason to go to war and put brave American servicemen at risk of life and limb, including my brother Matt and my friend Mary? Ridiculous. Ridiculous!
Meanwhile, Kim Jong-Il running amok in Pyongyang, with six nukes already (and more openly on the way) and a proven system of delivery up to 1500 miles, mind you, seems to be OK with Governor Bush because he really can't kick his ass as easily as he can Saddam's. Kim Jong-Il also wins the "Outstanding Cruelty To His People" medal by a mile over ol' Saddam, as well, and this is no small feat. This is not to say that I support starting up a war with North Korea, but I find it passing strange that Saddam Hussein is seen by Governor Bush as more of a threat to his own nation, the United States, and the rest of the world than Ol' Dirty Kim.
If being in breach of a UN mandate is enough to justify pre-emptive war, the list of nations next up for us is long indeed. There are plenty of tin-pot psychotic homicidal dictators out there. Do we lay them all to waste?
If there is an imminent, incontrovertible and absolute threat to the people of the United States, that is the only time a pre-emptive strike could ever be warranted. We're talking Adlai Stevenson's Cuban Missile Crisis-type of proof here. We have nothing close to that sort of intelligence on this matter. I would rather be the kid who got a black eye and then justifiably kicked his attacker's ass than the bully who punched out every kid he thought might possibly give him a hard time. The United States of America must not cross that line. If we do, we are no longer the paragon of a free, just and temperate world power. We Americans are better than that, all of us, every one, or we are nothing.
posted by John Patrick Bowles at 1:21 AM
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By the way, Ron "The Hedgehog" Jeremy yielded an astonishing $260. I spent it on fast women and tequila. God bless Ron Jeremy.
posted by John Patrick Bowles at 1:18 AM
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Four posts, three RIP's.
Rick Husband, 45, Air Force Colonel, Amarillo, Texas.
William McCool, 41, Navy Commander, Lubbock, Texas.
Michael Anderson, 43, Air Force Lieutenant Colonel, Spokane, Washington.
Dr. Kalpana Chawla, 41, Karnal, India.
David Brown, 46, Navy Captain, Arlington, Virginia.
Dr. Laurel Clark, 41, Racine, Wisconsin.
Ilan Ramon, 48, IAF Colonel, Tel Aviv, Israel.
posted by John Patrick Bowles at 2:30 PM
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This missive does not involve fire or explosions of any sort, although I did burn myself with a stick of incense. Sorry.
-jpb
I am quite bored right now, despite having read "The Art of Doing Nothing," (thank you, B) so I will fill you in on the details of my evening.
Yesterday, as I went to deposit my pocket silver into my piggy-bank Ron Jeremy (yes, it is actually a white porcelain pig, and yes, I did name it after Ron Jeremy), I discovered that I could not jam any more coins into it - the bitch was full. I picked up Ron at Pier 1 less than a year ago - another in a long list of impulse purchases. Every day when I return home, I dump all my silver into him as soon as I walk in the door. I never expected Ron to actually get full, and certainly never planned on emptying the fat bastard. A piggy-bank named after "The Hedgehog" just seemed like a nice addition to The Downtown Launching Pad Display of Knick-Knacks.
When I realized Ron was terminally full, I was presented with a problem: What the fuck do I do with it now? I wasn't going to count all that shit by hand - too much work. I wasn't going to throw it all away, either. That would just be stupid. Nor was I going to set him on fire (as I said earlier, sorry about that). Luckily, as I was searching for a plastic bucket (don't ask) in the basement of Uncommon Grounds later in the day, I happened upon an electric coin-sorter that I had advised Skip to purchase a couple of years ago. After a single attempt at using it, Skip relegated it to the back-room dustbin, claiming that it "didn't work."
Here, friends, was the solution to my dilemma. Electric coin-sorter! Surely that will make short work out of Ron's inner treasure... Or so I thought. After securing a number of coin wrappers from the very cooperative but somewhat skeptical Mr. Nelson Caldwell, I repaired to the Downtown Launching Pad with the coin sorter in tow.
After making some dinner, I set about Operation Count Ron Jeremy, fresh adult beverage in hand.
Part One: Empty Ron Jeremy.
Now, this proved far more difficult than I anticipated. There is only a very small 1" diameter hole on the bottom of him to allow egress of his contents. This had seemed a perfectly reasonable dimension to me as I examined it, but in practice, it was ridiculous. The damned pig must have weighed ten pounds at least, and shaking the life out of it while poking my finger in the hole (no jokes here, please) to facilitate the release of the coins proved quite tiring indeed. I thought that shit would just fall out in a heap all easy-like. I decided to fortify myself with a couple of adult beverages, and then tucked into this unpleasant task. I spent fifteen goddamn minutes frantically manipulating that porker until it was, at last, empty. I took special care to save the last coin - it's probably "lucky" or something. Whatever. So, there I was - plumb tuckered out with a table covered in coins. Time to get down to business.
Part Two: Count Ron Jeremy's Booty.
Skip was half-right. This infernal machine wasn't completely useless, but it did beat counting by hand. An anemic motor and an inclination to clog up when loaded with more than a handful of change at a time made slow going. To make matters worse, the change was not evenly divided between denominations. A shitload of quarters, slightly less dimes, and a paucity of nickels made for uneven unloading - a real pain in the ass. Then, of course, I predictably ran out of wrappers, as I had totally underestimated my new fortune's worth. However, I remained steadfast (shoulder to the wheel and all that), and after a solid hour and a half (and a few more adult beverages), I had completed the task. I solved the wrapper problem by using little plastic baggies to store additional coins for easy wrapping later.
Part Three: Surveying My New-Found Windfall
When I finally counted up the loot, I was, to put it mildly, quite pleasantly surprised. Ron is only about 6" in diameter (he's basically globe-shaped, but with ears and a snout), but this was not a paltry sum.
Part Four: Why Pennies Suck
If I had been putting pennies into this motherfucker along with the rest of the change, Ron would have filled up way faster and his net worth would have been way, WAY less. This is why pennies suck and is why I throw them away. Stupid pennies.
Part Five: The Interactive Part
Here is where you idiots come in. Two questions: How much was Ron hoarding, and what should I do with the windfall? I am partial to booze, hookers and a nice crack binge, but your suggestions are welcome.
I am now even more bored than when I began writing this dumb-ass note, so that's all, folks.
-jpb
posted by John Patrick Bowles at 3:51 AM
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Well, dear friends, "HOLY SHIT!" is the best way to verbally bottle what just transpired here in the Downtown Launching Pad Penthouse Suite. I finally managed to set the joint on fire -- in no small way, and with no shortage of Johnny Bowles style. I send this missive to you shortly after having snatched my very own self from the fiery jaws of certain doom. Or something. You are the select few that can truly appreciate visualizing the following episode of... How I Set My Trashcan On Fire And Lived To Tell The Tale.
Just a few short moments ago, I lay aslumber, blissfully snoring (LOUDLY, I am sure) off the after-effects of a particularly loud and satisfying Led Loco rock music show at Nectar Stadium/The NectarDome/Nectar Square Garden. Yes, Adult Beverages were involved. That is the way of things in the Winter Months here in the Lakes Region. But I digress. I woke up, groggy from my intake of, well, grog, and decided that 5.30am was a suitable time to check my email. No work tomorrow, so why not sit down for a quick compooter session before drifting off again, right? Right. I had left one of those "Puff Away" candles burning in the living room to clear away any untoward scents of cooking/lung darts/stray harlots, and noticed, shortly after sitting down at said compooter, that the candle had nearly burnt itself out. Time to replace that sonofabitch, I thought, congratulating myself on having had the foresight to purchase the 3-pack of replacement candles from the local tobacconist. This is where things started to go wrong...
Instead of blowing out the candle, I decided that dumping the contents of the candle-holder into the compooter-side garbage can, flame unextinguished, was the way to go. Surely it would put itself out. Having accomplished this, I set off to pee (this sort of thing happens after an evening of Adult Beverages in the nightclubs of Burlingtown). I had quite a surprise when I re-entered the living room. My trashcan was aflame -- and not just in an everyday sort-of-kinda-smoldering way, but in a (as I have already explained) HOLY SHIT THAT MOTHERFUCKER IS REALLY BURNING kind of way. We're talking big-ass flames here, kids. My first reaction was to put it out (I'm a problem solver, after all), so after staring at the flames and thinking to myself, "Holy Shit!", I grabbed the nearest source of water. This, unfortunately, was my plant mister. Basically this is a spray bottle filled with water -- not the most effective way of dousing two-foot high flames feeding on a trash-can filled with crumpled paper and plastic. I pumped away furiously (no double-entendre jokes here, people -- this was a life and death situation), but the inferno would not submit. I refused to panic, however, and ran to the kitchen to fill a pot with water in order to douse said flames. Rushing back into the living room, I managed to trip on a stray pillow and wipe out on the floor, spilling the whole fucking thing everywhere. Now I started to panic, as the flames were getting bigger, and smoke was starting to fill the room. At this point, I managed to pull myself together, got up, fetched some more water, gingerly re-entered the living room, and put that shit OUT, baby. With prejudice.
I send this missive out to you all firstly because I know you folks would enjoy a good "Johnny Bowles is a retard" story, and secondly as a cautionary tale: BLOW THE CANDLE OUT BEFORE THROWING IT AWAY.
Morals of the story:
1) DON'T PANIC
2) PLANT MISTERS ARE INEFFECTUAL IN DOUSING BIG-ASS FLAMES
3) LED LOCO SHOWS LEAD TO HOUSE-FIRES
and, of course,
4) BLOW THE CANDLE OUT BEFORE THROWING IT AWAY
That is all.
posted by John Patrick Bowles at 6:30 PM
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I'm toying with the idea of regularly updating this piece again. Maybe it's the onset of winter, I don't know. If anyone gives a fuck one way or another, email me and fire away. For all I know, nobody even bothers to check this shit out any more (which would make sense, since I loudly and publicly announced its demise).
posted by John Patrick Bowles at 11:54 PM
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 The (really fucking) old crew managed to assemble at Amen Teter and Ryan Fields' place for one fucking retarded Halloween party on Friday. All the dirtbags were in attendance (except for Neary -- please, Jenny, let him out once in a while) and there was much beer-drinking and breaking of things. Most of us hadn't been to a bona-fide "College-style Keg Party" in a while, so it was quite a novelty. Needless to say, the Pat-Gun was busted out by Dabica and myself and led to much foolishness. I broke that sweet-ass cane we got yard-sailing a few years ago while golfing beer cans at Knaack and McGurk (who was displaying his affinity for "rear entry" by rocking an 80's style ski-dude one-piece and Salomon SX-70's), but on the up side, I did get to throw a log through a window, so I guess I can't complain... Chaka (in full-on drag, mind you) managed to smash a pumpkin on Carter "I'm wearing a bubble-wrap suit and stop pouring beer on it, thank you very much, because you might ruin my giant old-school digicam" Olcott's head, which was quite a sight to see, I must say. Gaetano definitely managed to retain his title of "Champion Drink Tossin' Beeyotch," but only because Millsy didn't show up. It was all very 1997.
posted by John Patrick Bowles at 2:56 AM
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Mary-Brigid Dugan and I ventured south recently to sample the early-season treats promised by the Killington monolith. We got down there around 10 AM, fortified by Drunken Donuts coffee served up by a bona-fide Vermont dirt queen (complete with stainless steel Lee Press-On Nails). Yes, Rose, I was indeed rocking the Forum socks -- the black and red ones, as I sadly lost one of the camo pair at Doug Sitar's wedding in New Jersey last week (props to the Seagirt breaks, by the way -- I won't make fun of the Jersey surf any more). We managed four hours on the hill before our old, tired and broken bodies gave up. I must admit that I was so out of practice that I ended up following Ms. Dugan down the surprisingly well-covered four or five trails by the end of the day. Beeyotch kicked my ass, actually. To add insult to injury, I witnessed her pull off a bizarre and unintended shifty-to-nose-press (if you can picture that off a speed bump) that, while looking suitably stylish, was actually a total fucking spazz-out. I believe her exact words were "Was that a trick or something?" I don't think I left the ground except for when I was momentarily distracted by a tasty Vermont view and did a high-speed fake-snow endo. I didn't let it bother me, though, 'cause that shit is SO hot right now. I suppose we got our $35 worth of shrizza, but I am gonna be damn sore tomorrow. I don't know how Richards and Downing do it; they're (slightly) older than me. I guess they must be in shape or something. The capper was noticing that my lunchtime soda came in a genuine "Ben Hinkley" cup. Jimi Scott should get in on that. And last, but not least, according to the roof of Killington Starship #16, "Brad is Gay." Not that there's anything wrong with that...
posted by John Patrick Bowles at 2:45 AM
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Jeff "Mullet" Moran was good enough to pimp this site in the Media Militia section of the latest Snowboarder Magazine. Unfortunately, as you can see, I'm over it for the time being. Too much work and shit. (If you want to check some shit out by a guy who's not over posting random crap every day, go see =eros= at negativeb.) I will tell y'all that Mullet and Sean O'Brien managed to scrape together enough quarters to buy tickets back east for Dennis Healy's bachelor party, thrown by the gracious host, Mike Fox. The heavily tattooed duo of Kevin Scott and Jeff White managed to show up, as well. Also, Chris Daniele rode back into town towing a U-Haul, having forsaken the J-Hole for the familiar Vermont hills. It was a regular old-school late 90's B-Town dirtbag reunion. Kevin coordinated the teenaged strippers, of course. Highlights of the evening included Mullet getting so wasted that he got lost in a town he lived in for five years, J.D. getting punched out by a dirty old Esox bar hag, Kevin "I Just Started Drinking, Man, So Give Me A Break" Scott slurring his ass off, and Millsy and Randy Gaetano engaging in a little pint glass tossing. More in another four months. Check out the old shit, if you want... I gotta go watch the Gre-nerd crew vomit all over the bar at the post-"Full Metal Edges" Burlington premiere party. Good times, as long as I don't get splashed.
posted by John Patrick Bowles at 8:59 PM
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OTHER KIDS:
Current
March 02
April 02
May 02
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