Sunday, October 7, 2012

AMAZING LARRY

1991 Leaf Studio #67 Mark Gubicza

SOMETIMES YOU SEE IT, MAYBE OUT OF THE CORNER OF YOUR EYE. YOU HOPE IT'S REAL, BUT YOU ALMOST HOPE IT'S NOT, FOR THEN THE QUEST WOULD BE OVER AND TIME WOULD CEASE TO HAVE MEANING. BUT IMAGINE THAT ONE PRISTINE TIME, IN THE PERIPHERY OF YOUR VISION, WHEN YOU CATCH A GLIMPSE OF THE MOST PERFECT HAIR ON MAN OR BEAST. THE DESIRE, THE URGE, IT GROWS STRONGER. THE URGE TO SAUNTER UP TO THE MOUND, APPROACHING FROM THE FIRST BASE SIDE, UNNOTICED. THE DESIRE TO MOUNT, TO STRADDLE, TO TAKE THAT HAIR IN YOUR HANDS, TO LET IT RUN THROUGH, SLIP, DANGLE. TO BRAID. TO DIVIDE INTO THREE STRANDS AND TO BRAID. TO BRAID. OVER AND OVER, THE STRANDS PASS FROM RIGHT HAND TO LEFT, LEFT TO RIGHT AND BACK AGAIN, WHIRLIGIG MOTION. TO KNIT. AND THE HAIR, THE HANDS, ONE CANNOT BE TOLD FROM THE OTHER, AS YOU KEEP ON KNITTING.
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING...
AH-HAND KNITTING.








LIFETIME ERA OF 3.96

Thursday, October 4, 2012

GAIJIN

1997 Pinnacle #178 East Meets West
FIRST, A COUPLE OF QUESTIONS, MISS: WHERE DOES THE UNDERGROUND KICKBOXING CIRCUIT MEET, AND HOW FAR AHEAD OF TIME DO I NEED TO GET THERE TO FILL OUT THE REGISTRATION FORMS? FUCKING-A RIGHT, MY TOURIST VISA SAYS I'M HERE ON A BASEBALL TOUR, BUT YOU AND I BOTH KNOW MY OFFICIAL BUSINESS DOESN'T EXACTLY MATCH MY TRUE INTENT, BUT YOU CAN GO AHEAD AND TELL YOUR MR. MIYAMOTO THAT I'VE BEEN IN MY HOTEL ROOM BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 AND 5 A.M. I MEAN, FUCK YEAH, I'M SITTING AT TWENTY-FOUR-ODD HUNDRED AND SHIT, BUT WHAT REALLY REVS MY ENGINE IS THE FEEL OF BROKEN GLASS ON BARE KNUCKLES, THE SMELL OF THE RESIN AND THE SWEET BURN OF THE HEMP ROPE. WHEN IN THE RING, CAL RIPKEN, JR, IS NO MORE, AND WHAT EMERGES IS THE MANIACAL SPIRIT WARRIOR RIDING A KIND OF CROSS BETWEEN A BUFFALO AND A JACKRABBIT, CLOTHED IN MAMMOTHSKIN FINERY AND CLUTCHING A THREE-FOOT TOTEM SPEAR MADE OF FINEST BRASS. I CALL HIM NAWIMBE, AND HE STRIKES FAST. THE HOWL I WILL BELLOW SENDS FEAR INTO THE HEARTS OF ALL BUT TONG PO, BUT THERE IS NO DOUBT I WILL OVERCOME HIM.





SO, TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTION, SURE, A RAMUNE SODA AND A SHRIMP-FLAVORED KIT-KAT WOULD BE FINE FOR MY PRE-GAME SNACK.