|By Head_Prosthesis on Wednesday, March 20, 2002 - 04:56 pm: Edit|
Of course, the arsonist loves to oogle the scene, mingle and chit-chat with the authorities while their work is blazing away uncontrollably.
|By Louched_Liver on Wednesday, March 20, 2002 - 04:20 pm: Edit|
|By Petermarc on Wednesday, March 20, 2002 - 02:48 pm: Edit|
it's the rubberneckers on these threads that cause all the pileups around the happy accidents...'read, smile and move along, nothing to see here, folks, let's keep this thread clear and heading in it's original direction'...most enjoyable...and what the hell could anyone else actually add to it?
|By Head_Prosthesis on Wednesday, March 20, 2002 - 02:12 pm: Edit|
I never came to this place, here, you see, for feedback...
When I do get it, good or bad or indifferent, it's just one of those Happy Accidents.
|By Dehe on Wednesday, March 20, 2002 - 12:08 pm: Edit|
I'm enjoying this narrative. Its kinda interesting
|By Louched_Liver on Wednesday, March 20, 2002 - 12:06 pm: Edit|
Hey Pseudo Noggin',
You get the feeling that we are spray painting this on the inside walls of an abandoned building? Like, just for our own edification? Yeah, me too. But, like any jerkin' off, I'm enjoying it.
|By Louched_Liver on Tuesday, March 19, 2002 - 05:54 pm: Edit|
Well, it was a Ducatti. Red, shiny, low, wide, and you can see the tubular spaceframe. Kinda like the 1st missus Liver.
The dartboards are made by super feltformin' fanatic, and are said to last generations. Why you'd want one too, I don't know.
Which brought to mind a game played in church social rooms hereabouts-Dart Baseball. I know whatcher thinkin', the shit on the back of the board. Wrongo! The board is about 4'X4'. The darts are probably 3 times the size of normal ones, and made of wood.
The board has all the usual baseball crap, plus stuff like Hit by Pitch, Double Steal, etc... The game is played like real baseball, 9 to a side, 9 innings, 3 outs per inning. Stats are kept, standings posted. It's about as boring as you'd expect. I used to put 16oz Yuenglings in my car and take little "breaks". Didn't help my game, but improved my team spirit.
Not only are the ceilings in the Kempton festooned w/murals, they are wavy as a windswept lake. The place was built in the 1850s, and maintenance has been occasional. Willy Nelson didn't just toot a pinjoint, he played at the place, thus his spot of immortality. At least until the ceiling caves in.
The restroom? Well, the fact that the paneling is urine saturated probably ensures that the funk will stay alive for a long, long time. And fuck floating a ping-pong ball. You could float a softball in there. Hence, the plan of action is to hyperventilate on the stroll from your stool to the door, then take 1 last big gulp before stepping in. It helps to have your lil' mister out and ready to go before you go in to save time. Fuck those people lookin' at it.
As for the spuds. According to Dogboy, who never told me a pile of bullshit I didn't enjoy, they are bought in bulk when cheapest, and kept in the root cellar, which is, I believe, below the men's room, all year. Then they are not so much fried, as simmered in the secret ingredient-lard. To get them at their hottest, freshest, and most flavorful, they were ordered one order at a time. 4 in all I believe. No ketchup needed. Nor catsup.
Gargy's Granny was an unexpected treat. One doesn't watch live sex feeds from Amsterdam, then expect to see one of the girls spittin' image 55 years down the calendar, servin' up pickled eggs in Kempton. The more we looked, the more convinced we were she was Gargy's granny. Unreal.
As far as the "horrid haircut", I'm not so sure it wasn't bought off the rack. Prince Valiant meets Ringo.
Next stop was Leaser Lake, at the base of Blue Mountain. Quick stop to give a little something back to the watershed, and down some of the 6-pack we'd gotten to go. Guess what it was. Go ahead. Right! Yuengling. The lake was dark and peaceful, we discussed how far in to put the Marquise before optimal engine cooling would occur. We decided it was something that would be worked out better on a stolen vehicle.
Back to DogBoy Acres to fetch the LeBaron, and more pooch pettin' by Head. Stayed a bit to chat w/the missus, then it's off to the Walbert to get some grub, and have another beer.
Having extolled the pisstrough to Head, I thought I'd told him it wasn't still functioning. I guess the thought of beer goin' in, and coming out simultaneous, was too much to pass up. If it wasn't for the splashing off the glass that covers it, he would have gotten away w/it. Well,that, and the stench and the puddle. Couple of beers on the house, grab 30, sauce on the side, and we are up and out.
And then the mess that is El Topo. Russian director/star/writer, shot on location in Mexico. A big pile of burning bunnies, a guy w/no legs riding on the shoulders of a guy w/no arms,
naked priests being ridden like ponies and whipped by banditos w/cactus. Well, you get the drift, same old, same old.
And of course, good ol' Forrest Hump. You'd think w/12 stories of windows facing them, they'd realise that it's a rather public place for intercourse during the day. Someone may be watching. Maybe even videotaping. And maybe calling his brother on the 6th floor to watch too. Maybe. That boy had some staying power though. Not much in the way of style, but a real plugger, if ya know what I mean.
And that, my friends, was Day 2.
|By Head_Prosthesis on Tuesday, March 19, 2002 - 04:11 pm: Edit|
Somebody had a bucatti motorcycle or some shit. We saw it as we were leaving the Lynville. If it ain’t a chopper I don’t pay much attention. It was red and shiny though.
…onto the Kempton Ho'tel for some pimp lovin' cellar assed fries.
For some reason both bars and Dogboy Hall had these crazy dart boards.
Dutch Jockey flash back: "Brother Karl, while you be crafting that fine hex-a-ma-jigger there, why don’t ye fashion Brother Jacob and I a little something to pitch our points into!”
“Easy enough Brother Mucous, I’ll just paint some of these here numerals around this red stripe and you’ll be tossing tips and sipping tippsy in no time!”
The Kempton HO’tel has three ceiling murals. The one in the bar, over the bar itself, has a portrait of Willie Nelson. Legend has it Willie burned a fattie with some badd Kemp-daddies in there. Dogboy and I had to piss. Dogboy went in first. He came out and exclaimed “Careful! You can float a ping pong ball in there!!!”. He wasn’t kidding. The air was thick, indeed. They didn’t have a window but they did have soap where I could reach it. Yay!
We sat and drank. Lots of beer. When the potaytoes came we devoured them in minutes. We must have had three or four baskets. And lemme tell ya! THEY WERE FUCKING YUMMY!!! We were like three velvet headed Vikings, tanked and greasy from stem to stern.
The barmaid was fine little philly with raven hair and ivory skin. Bringing beer after beer, and basket after basket of fries…
Then there was a call, another country beerfrau leaned in and answered the phone. “What? I can't hear you. What? Still can't hear you. You'll have to speak up. What?"
Raven:“What’d they want?”
Red:“Not sure, but they better call back if they want something!”
As I leaned over to Louchalot I pointed out a woman in a serving uniform “Look it’s…”
“Gargoyle’s Granny!!!” he said.
We were both thinking the exact same thing. Grangoyle was working the lobster bisque at the Kempton! She had the same spunky taunt as her little Club 17 Granddaughter.
At some point a guy walked in with a horrid hair cut. I believe it was a “mullet taking” that had gone terribly wrong, but it had all the indicators of a free haircut from Gary the Retard. Those wonderful barmaids really made a fuss over his hair hat when he walked up to the bar.
When you want to stop the flow of the tap, you put your beer blotter on the top of the glass. I believe LL was the last to do so. Perhaps he was drinking from a bottle? "Want me to put a nipple on it?"
It was getting dark and we went down to Lisa Lake. Sounded like they said “Lisa”. It had the look of a place where one might pull someone out of a trunk, dump them on the ground and plug’em without a worry in the world of being heard. It was that damn peaceful.
Back at Dogboy Acres, I got a tongue bath from Kanto and unusual social attention from Rosey. Made me feel like part of the pack. Met Madame Dogboy and chatted awhile then headed back to Casa De Liver for eats.
On the way we had to pick up some wings from the place Louchey does his grillin’ thing. The Walbert? The bar had a piss trough in the floor right below your feet. To my embarrassment and a few young ladies surprise the trough was covered with a long sheet of plexiglass. “Waiter, can I get a few cocktail napkins over here? Sorry about the shoes, hon!”
We got back and started to watch that movie El Topo. We devoured about 30 chicken wings and I decided the film was actually called El Dozo. I realised that movie was Such a senseless waste of footage and farm animals as I threw the last three wings into the waste basket…
The end of the night produced a film from the archives to which no other can compare.
Forrest Hump by Louched Liv’alier. BUXOM BROADS AND ZAFTIG MAIDENS, MAN HAMMERS AND TINKER BELL CLANGERS, THRILL AT THE EXCITEMENT OF IMPETUOS YOUTH. IS THERE AN END TO THEIR TEMPESTUOUS TRYST? DO THEY KNOW WE’RE FILMING THEM? WILL THEY EVER GET TIRED? THE ANSWER TO THESE QUESTIONS AND MANY MORE RESIDE IN FORREST HUMPfilmed in Louche-o-vision
End of Act 2
|By Louched_Liver on Monday, March 18, 2002 - 08:03 pm: Edit|
Head, having the advantage of 5 more hours sleep, and w/the help of the most important meal of the day-the 1st beer, was looking quite radiant when I returned from my place of slavery, the Wallybert. I put the kettle on, and prepared the java. Time for an Eyeopener! Out comes the N.S. 70, and into the coffee it goes. Slick, black, and opens the peeps a crack.
The tour at Yuengling is a classic for beer lovers. You aren't peering into the distance through plate glass at modern machinery that could be making washing machines. You are walking through the oldest brewery in America, and it looks it. There are steep steps, cool ancient gauges, Frankenstein electronics, broken windows, piles of, well, who knows? Some of it may have been there 100 years.
It was a quart bottling day. Very rare. Only done 1 day every 1.5 months. What a treat. And you are right there next to it. To grab one off the chattering belt would be easy-peasy. Must be nice to be a Teamster and open cardboard boxes for a living. One was doing it 1 handed whilst ogling the lovlies in our tour group. My hero!
At DogBoy Acres, the dogs gave out w/their usual cries of joy at the return of the Jockeyman. Kanto is a world champion working dog, and Rosie his running mate, and a therapy dog. Both are gorgeous German Shepards.
"I gotta piss" says Head.
"Just go around the building."
A look of incredulity. He has to realise, this is manly man turf.
Dogboy reiterates-"Go on the gravel pile around back."
Head comes back w/a spring in his step, and less yellow in his eyes. And promptly grabs a proffered cold one.
We admire Dogboy's frame-up reconstruction of a vintage Scotty Serro Sportsman travel trailer, then it's time to hit the road for a taste of Dutch country bars.
A tie for stylish cruisin' would probably be an old Mercury Marquis w/ the grill missing, half the windows not working, and with a coating of dog hair. At least there is FM.
We arrive at the Lynnville w/a C R U N C H! as Dogboy uses the touch system of backing the boat into the slip. The bar side is full, so we retreat to the store side, and sit at the continuation of the bar there, behind the couch that faces the coal stove.
And it's glasses of Lager for all, except the 2 out of 3 that want bottles of Premium. Oh well, I tried.
A quick round, and it's time to motor on.
|By Head_Prosthesis on Monday, March 18, 2002 - 07:28 pm: Edit|
Friday morning was sleepy time for Head. While LL tended morning grill like a good jockey should, Head slept the sleep of the sauced. After a shit, shower and shave, I was ready to take on the world. Cracking the first beer (a Weyerbacher Imperial Stout, for that extra breakfast kick) I looked out the window at Allentown below. I see Lehigh, I see plants, I see a reflection of Louchey in his biking pants. He was back. Off to Yuengling.
On the way there, along the highway was a Petey Dog perched atop his dog house inside the fence of a tornado magnet. Nice big trailer park. Petey was looking very stoic. Looked like he was thinking “That jockey better bring me some butcher bones this time. He thinks those yappy little Osbourne dogs are shit machines? I’ll school that mother fucker like Helen Keller!”
Alongside the road was a sign that haunts me to this day. In front of a building with no apparent entrance in large black and yellow letters a sign that said ADULT.
Instant erection! “What the fuck is in there?” I thought.
Went to Yuengling. Beer. Lotsa beer. Shlameel Shlamazel… You hadda be there.
I really felt like laying down on the line and stopping to squat under the bottle filler and gulp down as much as I could… in a radiant nasal voice “AND THIS IS WHERE, IN 2002, A MAN ON OUR TOUR DECIDED TO TAKE A JOURNEY ONTO THE LINE WHERE HE WAS IMEDIATELY SQUEEZED INTO THE QUART BOTTLE YOU SEE ON THE WALL TO YOUR RIGHT. HE’S BEEN PERFECTLY PRESERVED BY OUR PATENTED HOMOGENIZATION PROCESS. TO LEFT YOU’LL SEE…”
Off to Dogboy Acres.
Up a stoney path, on the side of a hill, we meet with two large German Shepherds. Kanto and Rosey (Rosebud). The barking turned quickly into a crying that was uncanny and almost human “Rye Ruuvv Ruuuuwww!!!”.
I had to piss. Before I even got to meet Dogboy, I was invited to go piss off into the pile of gravel on the side of Dogboy Hall.
As I stood there, the hot, glorious, burn of urine hit the gravel, turning the light bits dark and I felt the swelling sigh of relief coming on like an orgasm. The Cock and the Hen stared at me from the other side of the fence. I forget their names as we weren’t formally introduced. I nodded at the Cock and bowed slightly toward the Hen as I shook the acrid dew from my cunny tapper.
Dogboy, one helluva host, immediately produced a can of Yuengling Lager. “Have a LAGER, will ya?”
“Ever had a real Pennsylvania Potayto? Fried in LARD they are!!!”
“No I haven’t.”
“Ah FUCK!!! We gotta go then! They store the damn things underground! They’re the best fuckin’ potaytos in the world man! Let’s go!”
We took a pitt stop at the Lynville “HO”-tel (regional pronunciation). In the belly of an old post office. The grain drawers still intact. Surly bartender. Growling stool toads and lots of character. Weiners were at least three hours old, but the beer was friendly and cold.
Went to take a piss. I found that I was pissing in the sink. Not uncommon even by Michigan standards but a nice touch in any case. Went to wash my hands in same and when I looked for the soap. I couldn’t find it. As I peered around something caught my eyehole out the window that was closed. On the grass directly outside, lay the bar of soap.
“Sweet!” I thought. “Fucking fabulous!” so I rinsed ‘em wiped ‘em on my pants and headed back into the bar.
To be continued…
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