end of the century

today's the day all hack writers and bloggers get the bright idea that we should perhaps take the time from our meaningless daily lives and write. see, last night hunter thompson shot himself in the head. amazing, terrible, tragic, but how else was the dude supposed to go out? He wasnt gonna conveniently die in his sleep or of old age of "natural causes", (natural causes usually meaning you wake up in the middle of the night in sheer panic asfixiated or having a massive coronary) Nope, it had to be like this. Like all the greats, except perhaps for bukowski who preferred the slow torture of destroying your liver (personally i'm a fan of the liver destruction, which i will resume after work with a bottle of whaler's rum and whole foods cola). But i'll miss reading HST's columns. Tonight the drinks are for the good doctor.

On the train this morning there were three thoughts i had going, one was that I did not surf at all this weekend or this last week. The second was that it was a beautiful morning and i was fool for getting on the train to go to work in the first place. The last was the bullet that when through HST's head. But it was a beautiful morning, sunny, with clouds whizzing above. and still no surf. see, i'm moving next week, which means my weekends are spent packing up my material possesions (which for some reason seems to be a lot, however mostly packing books and trying to figure out what to do with my writings and prints). This has taken an incredible amount of time. Instead of surfing i decided i'd go out, get drunk with my lady and shake my ass a bit. We headed to bigfoot lodge in the city. i had a delicious captian and coke then went to see ffs spin at 330 ritch. fun nights, plenty of drink and still no surf. this will change, i will surf and i will kick your ass while i do it.