No Training Wheels

2003-10-14T17:43:00.000-04:00

Crab. 93-94. Red Sox.

2003-06-25T15:31:00.000-04:00

Gettin' skinny again. Good times, indeed.

2003-03-18T01:27:00.000-05:00

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….

2003-03-17T20:51:00.000-05:00

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'.

2003-03-02T03:36:00.000-05:00

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.

2003-02-24T16:49:00.000-05:00

Jeff Anderson, RIP.

2003-02-21T00:26:00.000-05:00

Fuck it, Dude. Let's go bowling.

2003-02-06T01:21:00.000-05:00

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.

2003-02-03T01:18:00.000-05:00

By the way, Ron "The Hedgehog" Jeremy yielded an astonishing $260. I spent it on fast women and tequila. God bless Ron Jeremy.

2003-02-03T01:10:00.000-05:00

Stowe can suck my ass.

2003-02-01T14:30:00.000-05:00

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.

2003-01-21T19:42:00.000-05:00

Craig Kelly, RIP.

Whoa.

2003-01-15T03:51:00.000-05:00

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

2003-01-08T01:52:00.000-05:00

Tristan Picot, RIP.

2003-01-02T04:21:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year, beeyotches. Shred the gnar.

2002-12-08T18:30:00.000-05:00

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.

2002-11-25T23:54:00.000-05:00

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).

2002-11-04T02:56:00.000-05:00

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.

2002-11-04T02:45:00.000-05:00

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...

2002-10-04T20:59:00.000-04:00

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.

2002-07-13T03:41:00.000-04:00

2002-06-23T03:23:00.000-04:00

2002-06-20T00:51:00.000-04:00

Sorry. I'm taking a break from this shizzat. I've even been boring myself lately. Give me eight weeks for some new inspiration -- but there may be a few pictures or something before that. In the meantime, check Rose's shit out. He never seems to get tired of this crap.

2002-06-08T19:38:00.000-04:00

Flying down to NYC for a few days of mayhem...

2002-06-06T04:22:00.000-04:00

According to a little bird I know, Mike "If I get this wax job wrong, it's curtains for us at the Olympics!" Gardzina needs a refresher course in what nozzle goes into which slot, if you know what I'm sayin'... Apparently Chaka managed to fill a new car up with diesel instead of gasoline. Boom. Seized the dirty bitch right up, stranding him and Adam "No, seriously, I'm like a director and shit of 93-94" Moran in Utah for 3 days. (And if any of you are wondering, yes, 93-94 are still way huge in Europe).

The Red Wings can suck it. Go 'Canes.

USA-USA-USA! Sweet. This World Cup TV schedule is killing me. I gotta sleep...

2002-06-05T01:47:00.000-04:00

Chaakonsen appears to have had a few problems fueling up his rental car in Utah... Details to follow...

2002-06-02T18:55:00.000-04:00

Professional lurker Sean O'Brien looking for one more shot at stealing Cambria away from Rippa before they tie the knot. As in his previous 46 attempts, Sean was shot down. He's gonna need another beer to put those flames out...

2002-05-28T22:48:00.000-04:00

Finally.

2002-05-28T15:39:00.000-04:00

Holy shit.

2002-05-27T16:53:00.000-04:00

Mullet displaying the kind of charm it takes to pull chicks in a target-poor environment like Jackson. Daniele taught him this move, I believe.

2002-05-23T15:38:00.000-04:00

The Jackson Boys have sent me some pictures and some dirt. That's Marybeth getting a good old-fashioned poke in the ass on the dance floor. The ratio of guys to girls seems a little off for cowboy country, though. Shouldn't there be at least two more dudes trying to hump her? I've also been told that Duncan has been cultivating a taste for "untamed Wookiee snatch." Something like this, maybe? Also, it appears that Mullet's catchphrase, "Eat a bag of dicks," has caught on out there, as I have been advised to do so by McMillon. Good times, indeed.

The Whale... erm, the Hurricanes are almost to the finals. They can go up 3-1 with a win tonight. Unbelievable.

Matty Taylor finally made it back up to Vermont for a few days. It was a regular Lakes Region Upper Crust reunion, what with Mary D also visiting. The only downside to the mayhem that ensued is that I can barely breathe after all the lung-darts I sucked down. Smoking sucks.

2002-05-21T17:46:00.000-04:00

Sorry. I was away there for a while. Important stuff and all. That's a nice pic of Jay King I just dug up, eh? I bet he forgot about that one. Who is that pressed ham in the window? Why, it must be -B...

2002-05-17T05:16:00.000-04:00

Check out the weed-addled judge.

2002-05-15T00:53:00.000-04:00

Let me outta here.

2002-05-13T22:22:00.000-04:00

Whalers, baby.

2002-05-11T08:03:00.000-04:00

Hung over.

2002-05-10T03:04:00.000-04:00

Daniele says he's bored, so here's an update, even though I've been into the liquor cabinet for a few hours and may not be as sharp as usual. Jimi Scott has launched a new website. That's right, I'm talking about Jimi Scott, the man Neary once derided with the zinger "Trish goes bigger than you." Much bigger, actually. After you check out his new site, visit this trick tip of his to learn about that famous White Elephant steez. I can only imagine how much fun Chaakonsen (who is now famous in Taipei) had in turning down his request for a pair of bindings...

Mary D is back in town for a month, living at the Ponte mansion on North Ave. Look out, B-Town.

The Hartolina Whalercanes snatched victory from the jaws of defeat last night and bitch-slapped the Canadiens, 4-3, in OT. This Connecticut boy is loving it.

2002-05-08T21:01:00.000-04:00

1 - nil to the Arsenal. Champions, muthafucka.

2002-05-07T21:19:00.000-04:00

-B 29 5.7.02. 4.20 24-7, 10-4?

2002-05-06T20:05:00.000-04:00

Archives are fixed, such as they are. Big whoop. 93-94 is creeping towards an operational site. I can dig it. Also, You Are Next is back up after its mourning period. Check it out. Lastly, the Dabike-Uh has made a small, turtle-like movement towards updating his piece.

2002-05-04T21:13:00.000-04:00

Pretty Good.

2002-05-04T03:05:00.000-04:00

Osh and Lela are back in the ODB for a visit. Good to see them. Jay Ware, Matty Rehbein and Jay Rehbein are graduating tomorrow. Fuckin' A. Look out, world -- we got some Rehbeins and Wares with some college degrees and shit. Bust it up, boys. Congratulamuthafuckinlations.

2002-05-03T13:42:00.000-04:00

Holy Fucking Shit. I haven't boozed on gin in a while, and now I remember why. Goddamned Beefeater. I'm actually hung over, which for a professional boozer like me is something of an embarrassment. I think I remember something about running out of lung-darts and screaming at a Stop sign for more. Or something. Stupid gin.

Good times.

2002-05-02T19:38:00.000-04:00

This is funnier than Rose with a moustache. What's even funnier is that Rose doesn't think it's funny. He's funny that way.

2002-05-01T02:09:00.000-04:00

Ha ha ha ha. Fuck you, Alex Ferguson. Moss Side is loving this. Leverkusen may have knocked the Arse out, but they knocked your smug ass out too.

2002-04-28T22:52:00.000-04:00

Lyrics from Taylor after an exhausting weekend: "I feel like a thing of yogurt that expired two months ago." Good times, indeed.

For Chrissakes, Dabica, how about an update, you stale old bastard?

2002-04-27T21:43:00.000-04:00

Fuckin' A. The New Jersey Devils really are my bitches.

2002-04-27T14:45:00.000-04:00

The one they call Chaka has won another "I can run home faster than you think I can" bet. The wiry little sonofabitch made it back from the Downtown Launching Pad to his condo on Riverside Ave in 18 minutes, well under the 20 minute limit that Knaack and I laid out for him. This will surely come as news to Frank, as he seemed a bit out of it at the time we made the bet.

2002-04-25T23:16:00.000-04:00

2002-04-24T22:36:00.000-04:00

The New Jersey Devils are my bitches.

2002-04-24T02:39:00.000-04:00

I really hate the New Jersey Devils.

2002-04-22T04:16:00.000-04:00

I hate the New Jersey Devils. Bastards.

I have unfortunately managed to simulate the god-awful stench that I experienced last October near the end of an 11-hour non-stop flight from JFK to Argentina right here in the Downtown Launching Pad. I must have somehow recreated the exact same filthy combo of booze, shitty food and sleep deprivation that I experienced on that flight. Godawful, I tell you. Too bad you can't just crank down the windows of a 767 when it gets downright stanky.

2002-04-20T21:21:00.000-04:00

Got all hopped up on Red Bull and Liquid Truth Serum last night at Dan Liversedge's 30th birthday party, then went out on the town. I woke up this morning with a cut on my nose, gashes on my thigh and knee, and a big ol' scratch on my palm. Apparently I was teaching the kids how to "properly" dive off a porch and into a big-ass hedge. A very pointy and scratchy hedge. It ain't a party until very drunk girls in very tiny skirts leap into the bushes... Thanks to Ol' Dirty Muehlmann for teaching me my technique.

I missed the goddamn earthquake this morning because I was so hammered last night. At least my air conditioner didn't fall out of the window and brain some hapless fool wandering the streets at 7 am.

2002-04-19T00:13:00.000-04:00

The Bonsai Kitten dudes have upped the ante. Also, it would appear that these ketchup-squirting, pie-lobbing Frenchies could use some ninja lessons.

2002-04-18T00:49:00.000-04:00

How much more black could this post's image be? The answer is none. None more black.

No Training Wheels is looking to showcase a new ridiculous porn spam each and every day. We all have to deal with this crap, so we might as well have a little fun with it. Mail your entry's link here, or use the smutty little button under my picture over there on the left.

2002-04-17T00:24:00.000-04:00

Diamond Dave and Sammy Hagar on tour together? This is surely another sign of the Apocalypse. Swampscott's finest, David Lee Roth, is all right by me, but the sooner Sammy Hagar is crammed into Al Gore's old "lockbox" and set adrift in the Bering Sea, the better. Why Can't This Be [Stopped]?

The Hartolina Whalercanes are gonna whup some serious Jersey Devil ass, startin' tonight. Whalers green, baby.

2002-04-16T20:35:00.000-04:00

This picture is for Blotto, who advised me to "show more weeeeed smoking." I went for the arty-style illustration 'cause chicks dig that shit. I had to lift Blotto's picture from Transworld (Kevin Zacher), and since I couldn't find any antic-type shots, Dean gets to look all bad-ass on some rainbow somewhere. The One Sue Lee claims to be down with the Great Elastic Ponytail Band project (as long as that Real Piece of Work, E. Rose, is on the sticks). Ex-pat Jenny Grollman has invited me to run away to Switzerland, where she's currently living the high life. Pascal and Creston were amused by NoTrainingWheels, but want to see more about my special "Oat-Veal" cookies. McGurk still thinks it's gay. Lance Violette has yet to voice an opinion, but that's probably due to the fact that he's been in seclusion since the beginning of the month.

D-Man told me today that he's just been accepted to Georgetown Law School. He says he's still waiting to hear back from Harvard and Stanford, but isn't sure he wants to be a lawyer, anyway.

2002-04-14T05:46:00.000-04:00

I just made the mistake of trumpeting the latest iteration of mrbowles / notrainingwheels to damn near everyone in my Outlook. Some of these folks I haven't seen in years, and yet I felt like I had to inflict this crapola upon them just as they were getting on with their lives sans Johnny Bowles. I guess I did it out of loooooove. Too late to take it back now.

NEWS FLASH: I am now accepting applications for membership in my latest project, the "Great Elastic Ponytail Band." Throw your dirty ol' hat in the ring here.

1 - nil to the Arsenal.

2002-04-13T18:07:00.000-04:00

Smoked a bunch of lung darts last night. Feel like ass today.

Dabica says Ferrari will win at Imola tomorrow. He is right. Sorry, Liversausage.

This fucking idiot is a contender for "Biggest Waster of Time in The History of Mankind." I cannot believe someone actually put this piece of crap on the web, and I've looked at a lot of pieces of crap. Anyone who barfs up the line "Great Elastic Ponytail Bands!" and then provides a link to show off said "Great Elastic Ponytail Bands!" needs a serious beating. The most pathetic part of this whole rant is that I came across this page while searching for littleneck clam recipes. Go figure.

Time to nip into the whisky.

2002-04-10T19:20:00.000-04:00

Apparently the shit has hit the fan over on Industrial Parkway. Heads are rolling. One would think they'd just get rid of the deadweight dipshits, but we all know that's never the case... The good have gone with the bad, and that's just fucked.

2002-04-09T23:40:00.000-04:00

Draplin delivers the bitchslap.

2002-04-09T03:07:00.000-04:00

Let this be a lesson to all of you who think that moving to a big city and embracing Colt .45 will make you impervious to those awkward, not-so-cool moments you used to suffer in the backwater you grew up in. Also, I believe I have solved the "Chicken in Sherry Sauce" mystery.

2002-04-07T01:40:00.000-05:00

Where the fuck is Hurricane Gormley?

2002-04-06T18:43:00.000-05:00

Adam Moran has weighed in with his critique of this piece. The McGurk writes: "So I see you decided to get totally wicked gay and sit around jerking off to your own website now Bowles, sounds like fun, maybe I'll have to get my own too. But instead of cars I will put pictures of naked sluts and underage girls to jerk off to. later, Moran." I hope he gets that baby up and running soon, because Adam can get pretty damn cranky without a steady supply of Lolita pics and hand lotion.

Here we see him displaying one of the tricks he learned as a sprout at Nashoba and Wachusett. Nice work, McGurk.

2002-04-05T18:14:00.000-05:00

Trying to decide if I should indulge in an evening of drink and debauchery, or simply abandon my pants and lay about watching TV (this includes drinking, but little or no debauchery). The pull of the Serum is strong...

Manchester City are promoted. Fuck yeah.

2002-04-04T21:02:00.000-05:00

No fire here yet. Maybe a little smoke...

2002-04-04T00:40:00.000-05:00

My best friend Militarious DiMaggio Reynolds, Esq. has, after taking a look at the new site, advised me to not get too "gay" with it. I can understand that. I tried to glean a few ideas from his site, but I'm pretty sure I won't be able to live up his very "un-gay" standards. I will keep trying, though. Strive for excellence, I always say.

Couldn't resist tossing in this "extreme action shot" of Mr. Frank Knaack at the World Quarterpipe Championships (courtesy of Joel Muzzey, as presented on negativeb). Drink drop to assgrind. Good times.

2002-04-03T20:43:00.000-05:00

I stole this baby from Dabica, master of the Site of Justice. Apparently, he made it all by himself. I'm not sure of the significance of the “Hot Tub” lyrics, though. Does Chris just really dig hot tubs? Does he really dig hot tubs with Coulter in them? Does he really dig taking Coulter roughly from behind (not that there’s anything wrong with that) in said hot tubs? We’ll probably never know. Myself, I like to watch Coulter's head spin around in that funny hat. Or maybe I just enjoy feeling dizzy.

I forget how I ended up at this site, but I found it more than a little strange. I wonder what these creepy bastards are up to... I'm sure the PETA mouth-breathers will have something to say about it, if they can take some time off from throwing red paint on little old ladies' fur coats.

Enough foolishness for tonight. Time for a few cocktails.

2002-04-02T11:01:00.000-05:00

Up here in Ver-frickin-mont we tend to cast a disapproving and slightly embarrased eye northward towards Canadia. Find out how Canadian you are here. I managed an amazing 4% Canadian (which, I am sure, is due to some sort of statistical error and does not in any way mean that I have any roots in Canadia whatsoever.) There is no test yet for the rare Mexican-Canadian, but Bridges claims he has seen them at Killington in the late 90's.

Also, congratulations to the idiots in College Park, Maryland and Bloomington, Indiana. We all like to see a nice riot and a bit of looting after the NCAA basketball finals, I suppose. UConn kids wouldn't have engaged in this sort of monkey-business... UVM kids would be too stoned to light up anything other than Billy Bong Thornton.

2002-04-01T13:52:00.000-05:00

Mike the Gay Plant (not that there's anything wrong with that) is still alive. This one's for Michaylira and especially Sue, since I had to nurse ol' Mike back to health after she abandoned him on Adams Street back in the 2000. Before on the left, after on the right. Poor bastard.

Sean Hannity is an asshole.

Arsenal and Manchester City both won AGAIN today. I am loving it.

2002-03-31T02:30:00.000-05:00

Holy shit. What a tedious task setting this thing up has proven to be. Tiny cosmetic changes are proving to be a pain in the ass. Thanks to the Viper for his technical expertise. At least the drunken frat-boys wilding up and down College Street directly under the windows of the Downtown Launching Pad provide for a slight break in the frustration.

Here's a little something something for the weed addicts. It has got to be the most ridiculous website I've ever seen, except for that Peter Pan guy.

I need to hit the whisky now. Heavily.

2002-03-30T23:01:00.000-05:00

So I went to the new hippy co-op grocery store today, and had to wait for ten goddamn minutes while two fat, hairy, stinky hippies were rung up for every god-damned organic hippy food in the store. It was mostly produce like burdock root (whatever the fuck that is), organic soy milkberries and sunflower tofu nutz, etc. that had to be weighed out, and of course the hippy chick ringing them up was new and clueless. To top it off, the goddamn hippy chick bagging the hairy couples' disgusting food had to chime in with a tip on how to properly prepare every goddamned thing in the proper tree-hugging way. Jesus H. Christ, I thought I was going to freak out. I was, however, loving the fact that all I was buying was a big ol' steak, some Cheetos, and a six of Bud.

Arsenal and Manchester City both won handily today. GTI.

Goddamn hippies.

2002-03-29T13:24:00.000-05:00

The only thing the French are good at is running from the Germans.
The Italians are pretty good at building fast, loud, and pointy red cars.

Check out negativeb.com and youarenext.com, if you're a masochist. Vipes has some excellent jerky tips, and there is plenty of "sweaty man-love" up in youarenext (none of it featuring me, natch). Dabica's Site of Justice is the place if you're into vintage skateboards and crap like that. GTI. Draplindustries.com ain't nothin' to sneeze at, either. Or stick an eggroll in yer cakehole. I don't care.

2002-03-27T17:35:00.000-05:00

This is new. It will probably suck.