Epic Strikes Again

Short Version: Macklin and I went to the Celtics vs. Thunder game on Sunday.

Long Version: Sunday, around two pm I went on the celtics blog. There I saw a hyperlink(!) for Paul Pierce's twitter. Clicked it. Paul had just twitted a message along these lines: Come to the players parking lot at 4:30 sharp wearing my jersey, I got five extra tickets to give out. passcode is truth. So at first I figured it probably was fake. Then about an hour later I figured I didn't have anything better to do, so if it was a joke, at least I 

could say they didn't get me.

Anyway, I convince Macklin of this being a good idea and he comes along. T almost bones us, but we get to the lot at about 4:28 and there are already about 5-7 twitterheads already crushing. We wait. We doubt. 4:30 comes, and on the dot a black on black range rover appears, bumping beats emitting from the insides. Some think it's Garnett.

Then the rover pulls in, stops, and the window rolls down. Its th

e captain and the truth, Paul Pierce. 

"What's the passcode?" He asks, not pulling any punches and apparently no time for small talk.

We all yelled truth! and he handed us tickets to his personal box. Suite 534. Get it?

Nothing was catered or anything, but the seats were still incredible. Plus we had our own bathroom. The suite basically went wild every time Pierce scored. During the comeback I was going crazy/being drunk. So awesome. Thanks Paul, that was the shit... damn

Dungeon Master

Just crushed some work in the ECL (Emerson College Library for al ya'll not hip to the lingo). Anyway, its good. Got work done better and faster then I usually do, so that's a plus. Also a professor said I blew her mind today with my script outline for Red that I thought sucked. Must have been the airship race and/or the dragon fight. Yeah, shit gets nutty in that one. So now I'm sitting here in the lib, rocking Iron Maiden real hard over the earphones, constatnly paranoid that my headphones aren't plugged in and I'm just blasting shit through the entire building. Whatever. Mad fly hunnies in the library per usual. Probably why I've increased library visits recently to maximize work as well as face time. Gotta get out of 9 Fulk more. Cabin fever real hard. This cold snap is snapping me right now. Just need to play ball sports, and ride duo man powered vehicles. I've gotta focus up like a little bit so I'll break it off here. Real brief, but time is money these days and probably for remaining days, in the B Roy camp. 

Return of the Jedi/King/Library Book

Some more shit happened while I was in Quebec. More beer was consumed. One night we ordered (well Simon ordered... French) a 4 litre pitcher of this 9% beer. The waiter told Simon, in French, nice knowing you. Truer words were never spoken. Matt ended up disappearing into the night, and Simon and I stumbled after him. I awoke in my own puke, fucking classy/close to death. It is apparent I can't go to a foreign country without coming close to death (if you haven't heard the other stories, ask me in person... shame).

(As a side note, this is Duane Allman not me... yeah fuck that)

Matt and I sadly had to depart the land of French speaking goddesses and headed south. We stopped off for a night at the farm in VT. Complete nothingness always feels good. Drank whiskey, smoked cigars, and talked... well I talked while Matt texted (literally the kid was like a crack head after not being able to text in Canada). Good times. Plann

ing a return trip (it's true, check the guest book at the farm, it's in there).

Going back to Fulkertown tomorrow. Hopefully Macklin and Dougal didn't burn down the place. I have faith... kind of. Not much time left there. Hell not much time left on this coast... shudder at the thought. Many years ahead, it's hard not to be scared. Get amped on life, get amped on the future. Where we're going, we won't need roads.

Viva Quebec

Well Watchmen sucked. Just thought I'd get that out there. If you want the full rant, see me in person. Fuck that shit... I don't even really want to talk about it. Maybe 15 minutes of quality in that two hour and forty-five minute abortion. 

Blogging from America's hat, aka Canada. But I'm not really in Canada, I'm in Quebec city. Last walled city in North America or some shit. Also, they want to be their own country, and not be run but the Queen. Been there, done that... like 300 years ago. Anyway, we're crashing at Mur-dog's boy's crib. His name is Simone, he hates Canada more then most Americans (for instance, when Murray had to get a disposable camera at a souvenir shop, Simone had to leave the store because of all the Canadian shit) , speaks French, and races ostriches. One of those facts is false.

Last night Murray and I arrived just in time to start crushing, and crushing we did. Simone had to order our drinks for us non-frenching folks. Of note: girls here are bangin', but they don't want to/can't speak the english... such torture. Good thing I speak the universal language of love. Word. Hit up some real tight bars, and didn't get bounced despite Simone breaking two glasses in one bar. Also, Murray's other camp homie John 'Francis Ford' Coppola is here. He got really drunk, and booted this morning due to hang-overedness. Big ups to him, I've been there... all too often actually. We were actually driving to breakfast and Simone had to pull over so he could yak. Good looks.

Today Simone gave us a tour of this fine city. We saw a huge ass waterfall, a sick island, and did a walk through the walled city. Tight. We ate poutine. The sidewalks here are really fucking icy, due to daytime meltage and night time freezage. Makes drunken walks home trecherous. I thought I was pitching a perfect no fall game, but according to Murray I bit it last night (and I fell like earlier today). This explains why I punched a snowbank, and awoke with cuts all over my knuckles... silly