Friday, September 06, 2002
prelude & parts 1 2 3
He couldn't sleep for shit. Rion Dark just laid in bed, staring at the ceiling fan spin, and spin, and spin. Who's toes had they stepped on? They hadn't gone maverick in the operation at all, strictly by the book. They'd leaned on the guy until he talked. Same as always.
Robbie Chan. That was where he had to start. He certainly couldn't go back to LA. San Francisco would probably be pretty hot too, so that was out. All he could really do right now was chill and think, which was both comforting and frustrating as hell. There were people out there, moving against him at that minute, he could feel it. Tracking him down like a dog. The frustrating thing about assassins was that they kept after you, sometimes the heat never blew over. Ten years later he could get a bullet in the head as he was shaking the piss off his dick in a public urinal, all over some stupid asshole named Robbie Chan.
Robbie Chan. Even if he was stuck in Montana didn't mean he couldn't do a little research. There was something about this guy, obviously. Maybe a little visit to the library would be in order tomorrow. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been to one. It would do him good to explore his intellectual side.
Dark kept staring at the ceiling fan for about another forty minutes, then finally, mercifully, drifted off to sleep. His sleep was sound, undisturbed, and without dreams of any kind.
also, dug up some stuff on the new mexico state aggies. their mascot is the little guy pictured, pistol pete. apparently based on a real life gunfighter from the old west. whatever. fuck him and fuck them. i mean the whole cowboy thing is so played out, move on already. apparently they've got a pretty good running game, almost beat south carolina last weekend, but ya know what? cal will stomp. won't be as easy as baylor, though.
this is the first meeting ever between the two teams, and it will take place in the ultimate football atmosphere of strawberry canyon, berkeley, with the cannon sounding every five minutes as cal bludgeons some aggie ass. this saturday - be there or be square. i guess i'll be square, stuck out here on an island while my bears go to battle, but the spirit of berkeley joe will be present in the minds and hearts of all in attendance, and you know this.
interesting little side note: one of the assistant coaches for nmsu was a player for cal and was on the field for THE PLAY in 1982. the play, if you don't know, was the greatest football play of all time, and involved cal running back a kickoff against stanfurd and lateralling the ball all over the place and finally bashing some trombone player's head in that had dared step on the golden bear field while the game was still going, punk ass. look it up.
more later true believers.
Thursday, September 05, 2002
hosemonster is saying how he has bloggers block. i don't really get bloggers block, well sometimes, but then i just keep typing and whatever comes out i go on with my day and think, well kool keith you blogged today and that is building of the blogosphere, crucial for the continued growth of bloggerville.
so that's my theory on the whole blogging thing. one man's opinion. one man's belief. one man's desire to understand the world around him.
so anyway, i was in waipahu earlier today, because there was a skunkswork convention. we represent the windward side. the leeward coast was in attendance as well as the two town divisions and north shore rang in saying waddup but not shaka, but they showed shaka. so anyway, i'm drifting.
i don't know if i've ever really explained what we do here at the skunkworks. and i'm not sure i ever will, you see, if certain people within the ciy & county government of honolulu hale ever found out about this here blog, i would be tried and likely convicted of linking crucial information to the media. so, i've probably said too much already, but it involves skunks, and large vats of, dammitt shut up berkeley joe, we can't give away the store.
so anyway, back to what i was saying, the skunkworks convention. i was staring at this statue of akebono the hawaiian sumo star, his hometown is waimanalo, and his mom has a sumo store in the little shopping center we're chilling out at. akebono stands there, still as a stone, in his ready pose, about to take down some chump from kandalaski iowa and show em whut nalo guns do in the land of the rising sun. so i'm eating a rack of lamb sandwich, and the statue like starts to talk to me! it's like "ho bra, pass me one piece chicken katsu." akebono is a big time harley rider, and he ate it last year cruising around downtown, but he's ok. so don't worry. he's retired now but he was basically one of the biggest badasses in japanese sumo.
i mean really, this blogging thing, am i just farting in the wind, spitting out flakes of verbalism, disregarding writing practices established from the time the first thesaurus hit the pavement on 177 boggone way? am i just foaming at the mouth, putting in my 20 cents, adding a sparkle a twitch of backbone and whimsy to the innernet public or am i just brain dropping central? thanks george carlin you showed me that sometimes you CAN just say a long list of dirty words and it's hilarious. i mean, sometimes, you can just bizabble and it'll ride the creek train down to the elementary school of medium paced knocks.
bumpin iron maiden number of the beast. one of the best metal records of all time in my obviously flatulated opinion, up here on my perch, in a lurch, disgracing the scene with a gangsta lean, left post of the firstmost born in a january morn.
iron maiden rules. and so does randy rhoads. and so does lucky charms cereal.
Wednesday, September 04, 2002
batusi. it was a dance done by john travolta in pulp fiction, but ORIGINALLY it was master bruce in his 60's adam west incarnation. he busted out that batusi like no one ever has or will.
quiet riot randy rhoads years cd this weekend, by blastin the guitar-masters early works all weekend, i was able to partially exorcise the feather-haired nutty block sytled ghost that had been lingering in my afterthoughts and ponderings. damn he was a talented mofo.
then there's kevin dubrow, quiet riot lead singer. he's got that gruff voice that sometimes works, and sometimes it's like, chill dude. but his voice made cum on feel tha noize to a certain degree, so kevin dubrow is an overall positive. plus he put together the album. there's a live cut on there called Laughing Gas, and there's like a 7-minute randy rhoads guitar solo in it, and it just supercrip. Kevin Dubrow, in the liner notes: "Recorded live at the great L.A. club the Starwood on July 6, 1977. A staple of our live show. Due to the length of the solo and the fact that it was constantly evolving, we never cut a studio version of this song. Depending on his mood, Randy would sometimes do a ten-minute solo. You can hear parts of his later songs that he took from this unique solo."
rhoads goes all over the place on this solo, keeping the spirit of the song, but just tearing up the shit in da hizause. the solo on the ozzy tribute album is a little more polished, but this one fukn rocks and is just like "fuck it" and that fukn rules.
OK - enough randy rhoads.
want to give a shout to my homey aquaman, who just blessed me with 3 pimpin cd's from cali. Dr. Octagon (vintage dope album, kool keith raps, alchemist production, scratches by dj q-bert of invisibl scratch piklz), best of eric b & rakim, and Blackalicious, on some conscious shit, keepin it real like a trained seal. thanks, dawg, and all yall pizeeps if you need a dj in the la area, you bettah check him out at the rubysatellitesystem. he'll hook you up in hawaii too, this madman is trans-pacific. i'm telling you!
so anyway, still stoked that cal spanked baylor, gotta research new mexico state. i can't remember a thing about them except i think their mascot is a little man with a giant mustache and a big hat. we'll see how close i am. whoever he is, i'm basically gonna use my poison pen to etch his tombstone pizza with extra sauce and cheese.
Tuesday, September 03, 2002
column gives a pretty good play by play of all the beautifully gory details.
i didn't realize that the golden bear representation in this instance would involve desecration of forbidden orifices and ritualistic pride-stripping in its most barbaric sense. i mean, i was moved to music. i sang a song that i'd never heard, never known, but that came as clear and unflinching as a hyena's cackle, it beamed forth from my mouth like the rain from the clouds, a thunderclap of harmony forged in the kilns of oski the eternally golden bear.
goddamm it feels good to bask in the glory of a cal victory. next up: new mexico state, this saturday, and i should be doing a little preview action tomorrow if i can catch that magic inspiration that is so powerful, yet so fleeting. like a golden bear victory, you have to catch it, ride it, and harness it for uses that you may have never imagined, because the certainty of it happening again is neither confirmed nor likely, at least in the astrological sense. but fuk madame cleo, i'm calling it out, golden bear style, it's on bitch, cal is fukin ridin this wave straight to the top, fuk the ncaa and their probation shit, they can lick my left nut, golden bear time beyotch.
go forth young bears and bring me back the skull of a buckskinned rabbit, and we shall prepare a stew for the coming battle, and there shall be dancing and frollicking and gnashing and grinding of bones for the coming feast. though shalt bathe in goats blood brought from the farm of a new mexico cat scratcher, amidst the winds of change birthed from an original gangsters gatling gun.
or something like that. go bears.
anytime i heard about it i just nodded my head and said, yeah, fuck those guys. the problem was, i knew who was doing it, and i wasn't talking.
the perpetrators were a grizzly crew known as rick & the gang, and me and two of my buddies were the only ones on campus, besides the infamous gang, that were in on the joke.
more on that note later, seeing as i've got buckets of work.