Yeah, you heard it here first: Philo got a grill.
You'll notice it's on his bottom teeth. This, Philo tells me, is for "subtlety."All right, now that the important stuff is out of the way, allow me to apologize for sleeping on the job, as it were. The majority of the pics in this entry were taken on (or around) Saturday, January 15. With my iPhone. It seems that I just haven't felt like mingling about--or, as the Murder City Devils might call it, "goin' out mincin'"--with the Nikon, through the great unwashed masses, yearning to breathe free.
I promise you this, Sweet Tits and Swingin' Dicks, that come this Friday, I will take a few smiling, happy trips through the sweaty throngs to document the Buckshot madness.
Movin' on.
The guy below was asked not to come back in because, well...we pour stiff drinks. Anyhow, despite the photographic limits of a phone camera, I did get some sweet action shots of him taking a concrete nap in the bus stop.
He held this pretzel pose for a surprisingly long time:
Action!:
Okay, this is starting to feel a little more comfy:
I'm not sure if this is the agony of defeat or the thrill of victory:
I must say, despite handling his booze like a teenage girl at homecoming, dude was a pretty good sport about getting the boot. Sure, he tried to get back in, but he wasn't a dick about it, and he knew when to leave us alone.We had some other kook get off the bus and sneak in a tall can of malt liquor. Folks, beers are two bucks a pop in the Buck. If you need to bring your own, you need to drink at home. No cover charge, two dollar beers. That means, if you'd like to have a sixer of PBR or Tecate, that's $12 for the beer and $6 for the tip. Bring a $20 spot and you can probably afford a slice of cheese at Nizario's after we close. Don't have $20? May I wholeheartedly invite you to enjoy reruns of MacGyver on your couch, as opposed to 1) Not tipping. Seriously, you are no longer in short pants, Bubby. If you don't tip a buck a drink, you label yourself indelibly as a cheap asshole; or, 2) Sneaking in your own alcoholic beverages. Nothing says "douchebag" louder than five jocko homos standing around drinking Coors Lights in a bar that doesn't sell Coors Light. Zero tolerance--we will kick you out for BYOB. This is not a rager at the frat house, fellas--it's a business that, curiously, stays afloat by selling booze.
Anyhow, back to the story. Dude was asked to leave and kept coming back, tall can in hand, trying to get back in. You can only ask someone nicely not to drink in front of the bar 8 or 10 times before you've got to snatch their beer, dump it out, and throw the can in their face.
"Man, I spent my last two bucks on that!"
And this is my problem how, exactly?
No pictures of said champion, but we did find this on the floor later:
Youch! Not positive it was his, but we assumed, since he was the shadiest character to come through the door. Note: prison shanks are also not welcome. Even less welcome than bringing your own booze.Movin' on. This guy had one of those magnetic earring hoozits on. It's two little black magnets that go on your lobe and look a bit like a plug. Sort of a 21st century version of the clip-on earring. Apparently the magnets weren't strong enough, which left him down on his hands and knees searching for a little black dot:
In his words, he wasn't "tough enough" to get a real ear piercing. Tough enough? Really? My kid got her ears pierced in the mall when she was five, there Norris. With all due respect, maybe you need to harden the fuck up.I'm a big bike guy. Here's a small bike lady with a bad-ass custom ride:
We keep this in the office, just in case:
To whomever painted this incredible portrait in ketchup: you rule.
This is Triv. He runs the skeeball league, Brewskee Ball, in addition to, you know, runnin' thangs:
Rick's Slutty Sis has had a tag up in the men's room at the 'Shot for at least a year:
Just noticed my boy Gesus One has this sticker up:
Remember folks, you can tag your ass off in the shitter, but if you write on the back door we get fined.These cats played down the street at the Abbey Tavern last Saturday, the 29th. They walked around the hood, rippin' New Orleans jazz:
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