The bad news is, the motherfucker is brighter than the surface of the sun. Seriously, wear your swimsuits because the Buckshot has got a new tanning booth.
The good news is, the pictures are now digital process, so the front of the bar no longer smells like the rotten egg stench of photo chemicals.
The bad news is, now when I fart, I've got nothing to blame it on.
The good news is, the booth works more than the old one.
The bad news is, it was still broken most of its first week in the bar.
The good news is, it doesn't take as long to get your photos.
The bad news is, it's a digital photobooth and not a film one, so it has no fucking soul.
The good news is, most of our customers just sprouted pubes and have never owned a vinyl record, so they don't give a fuck about soul.
The bad news is, the photos are in a square of four, not a four photo strip.
Well, that's the long and the short of the new photo/tanning booth. Aside from the fact that, in a shocking victory for the bad news column, there's also no Farrah Fawcett poster on the outside.
We still love you, Farrah.
Also gone are the old photo strips with hot chicks showing their tits. And what the world needs now is more tits. Oh, and love, sweet love:
Jackie DeShannon: the '60s hottest wax museum figure. Jesus--have another dilaudid, Jackie--your 15 minutes of fame will be over soon enough. You're gonna be on television!
In other camera related news, my Nikon took a shit right after I promised to take more candid shots for the blog. Just refused to turn on anymore. So I sent it to El Segundo to be resuscitated, which I'm sure will cost me my left ball, at the very least. When you see me at the bar, feel free to give me a $20 spot towards my poor one-eyed baby's reanimation. Either that, or you can write an angry email to the owners and demand they buy me a new Nikon. I'm sure that'll work--there must be upwards of 6 or 7 die-hard fans of the Buck blog. And by "die-hard fans" I mean people who smoke too much weed at 4am.
Clearly, I'm making the bar millions in PBR sales:
The above picture is like a bottle of water floating in a lake. Really, is there any difference? Is that you John Wayne? Is this me?
Jesus, no wonder the Italians got their asses whooped so bad they had to change sides in WWII. Their drill sargeants sound like complete pussies. R. Lee Ermey goes from the most bad-ass gunny on earth to a prancing Shakespearean in translation. The only thing missing is tights and a ruff collar.
And finally, let's end in the toilet. A different toilet. The fabled piss trough fell off the wall the other night:
Luckily, our handy handyman Roberto fixed it all up again--now you savages will have a place to piss besides the floor. Rumor has it that it broke when some genius stood on it to tag the ceiling. Look, Hervé, if you can't reach the ceiling, don't tag on it--because if I catch you standing on the piss trough you're going to be taking a bath in it.