Aww Yeah You Know What Time It Is

I am not good at many things. I am however good at indulging in frivolous past times, logging origins of Old Norse names into a spreadsheet on a Saturday night (told you), sport dining, and posing gratuitously and spontaneously on other people's vehicles without consent and with a confidence suspiciously disproportionate to my looks. (We could get into the genesis of how that all came about, but then JRR Tolkien would have to write FOUR volumes about that tumultuous journey and we don't have that kind of time, okay?) Still, the equation remains simple:

Step 1 | FIND CAR

Step 2 | MODEL ON IT

= CAR MODEL TIME, BABY BITCH.

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Kennedy School, academics, Honors Bar

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This is a cheers to the victory of youth - to a 26 year-old working the hell out of an old woman’s job; to indulgently eating pho and chugging bourbon on the street out of a disposable flask only a few hours after recovering from a violent food poisoning episode; to realizing we were drinking Heineken Light at an open bar (go figure) and recovering from that most unfortunate trauma by ordering fancy beer with cash we made from non-salary jobs; to making a Johnny Winters joke to a 38 year-old man only to turn around and tease him like a total brat for being “old as fuck” for not getting the reference; to being stuck in LA traffic at midnight and thinking it’s a welcome opportunity to sing and clap and dance like giddy babies. 

I would be remiss to say that I am not aware of the inevitability - and allure, if you ask me - of maturing into my thirties, as it is something I genuinely find heartening. But suffice it to say, I currently have no grudges about being an impetuous gamine who will [presumably, fingers crossed] only be less flushed with mischief, or at the very least these spurn whimsical impulses of young adulthood, as the autumn of my life steadily approaches, either.

[Brian Taylor photo]

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An Oregonian waterfall, tallboy, and a swanky British ad exec’s car on loan with a hemi that takes off in your ass into the wilderness: The Venn Diagram of Stoke is complete. I win it all and no one else wins anything.

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I Beer LA… in my Ferrari, turkeynecks!

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There’s only one thing classier than street wine and holding your beer money the entire night, and that’s this eloquently written, anal-retentive parking note.

Is that punitive “toe” threat a Freudian slip? Just asking.

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We found this sick Pontiac after rolling en masse to the local Ethiopian jazz club/restaurant. In the first photo, I am posing with my homie Damien and in the second, with Thee Karl Sanders who, factually speaking, betrays his own dashing good looks in this photo due to the technical malfunctioning of what I once believed was my trusty point-and-shoot because he looks like an alien here.

(As an aside: Thee Karl Sanders is considered amongst our various circles of extremely attractive friends [that is the requirement to be friends with us, obviously] to be the ultimate in looks and indefatigable spirit; and, subsequently, good luck follows him everywhere. Right now he roaming freely around Mexico under the patronage of a terribly wealthy Hollywood producer with all of the lodging, accommodations, psychedelics and wimmins he could possibly ever handle - all because the Hollywood producer patron whom Karl was waiting on rightly decided verbatim that he was “one cool motherfucking dude” and gave him a huge fistful of weed bundled in a napkin, then invited him to join the life of luxury for an undetermined amount of time.)

Anyway. Whoever said Koreans can’t roll with blacks is buggin’ (Wesley Snipes doesn’t count and fellow Koreans, youknowwhy). Damien from the Boroughs, Thee Karl from Jamaica and Ethiopian culinary steeze - I got the brotherhood cubed, like internationally, paisa. Putting the street cred on front street!

…Huh, “Brotherhood Cubed” is a good name for a three-on-one interracial porn, no? Just a thought.

On second thought, it occurs to me that I’ve casually editorialized on porn punditry twice already on this site, which may give you the false impression that I am disproportionately cultivated in the topic of porn. This is not entirely true. Not that there’s anything wrong with porn. To begin with, if we took all of the revenue from the porn industry, it would probably exceed our national deficit. And once I had to cast female porn stars for a zombie slash film, so I had to go through their Z-cards and such, so mark down a tally for little Stephie’s porn education transcript.

But I’m double not into getting cubed by any sort of brotherhood. Or squared. Whatever. No way. Just, you know, preferentially speaking, that’s not my steeze. Save it for some other hungry broad. I’m just saying: Brotherhood Cubed.Thematically speaking, it lends a lot of promise. Someone get on that. Or, rather, someone get on all three of those.

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Guest model time

The enthusiasm level may appear low, but that’s not the point. Would you try and steal my car if Stroot was posted up on it like this? Well geez, I don’t know, will the Chicago Cubs ever win a World Series?

Right. If I ever need someone to save me a swing during peak hours at the playground, I know who I’m tapping on the shoulder to lock in that shit. Yeah Big Red.

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Freewheelin’ in a big wheel. Aww yeah.

With Comrade Max. IN SOVIET RUSSIA, CRANE CRANES YOU!

This is borderline embarrassing/funny, but this is from the night of the notorious taco truck fight outside of the Golden Gopher. The bike gang and I were rolling around town and obviously, no one anticipated the hooliganism that was to ensue just hours after this photo was taken.

To simplify the equation, I went at the broad and her boyfriend tried to intervene (i.e. maul me), and the crowd swayed back and forth until a full-scale rumble nearly erupted.  The big bright neon Golden Gopher sign, in retrospect, made a great backdrop for a physical altercation and helped glamorize something so stupid into something that could be considered, as my friends later gushed, “so fucking rad, dude!” Visually stunning, that fight was, and all thanks go to the Gopher sign hanging above our heads as limbs started swinging and the crowd started cheering.

That’s a fact. If you’re going to pick a fight anywhere, I say do it outside under the sign.

Another thing: If I knew that I was going to be at the forefront of a brawl getting into fisticuffs with some ding-dongs as the entire man convention wielded U-locks behind me waiting for shit to pop off for real, I would have definitely worn something attractive yet still functional to preserve the memory of this ill-fated night in better standing, at least from a fashion standpoint. But, alas, I was dressed like a second grader that night.

The point, though, is that that ensemble emerged unscathed from the torrential downpour of flying tacos and condiments that so marinated my adversaries, and the whole time I was talking shit and flipping over dinners while eating mine.

So. Yay for multi-tasking and keeping it on the level.

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Dream car. No big deal.

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