His heroics on the track at the Xtreme Indoor Carting compound in Ft. Lauderdale saw him place fifth on the all time leader board, a half a second shy of the all time record held by, “Some redneck from Tallahassee.”
He celebrated by visiting the on premises bar aptly called The Finish Line.
Yeah, you know I just needed to have a couple beers to celebrate the victory. There are few times in the life of a man where he feels truly accomplished.
After running a sizable bar tab of $23.95 which, in Florida, is equivalent to a blood alcohol concentration of 0.38%, he drove himself home in an automobile.
Editor’s Note: Gunden doesn’t posses a valid drivers license.
Tomorrow is the first of three Summer Streets in New York City. That means no motor vehicles from 7 am to 1pm, starting from 72nd Street and Park Avenue all the way down to City Hall.
… By purchasing 2666 by Roberto Bolaño. In such a hectic time of my life, the last thing I need is another distraction.
This book is just that, a huge fucking distraction. It is excellent.
The pedantic nature of Bolaño’s prose makes me want to blow my brains out. I’m tempted to throw the book into a fire in a feeble attempt to rescue the time that escapes me.
For some reason I knew I shouldn’t have forked over the money at the cash register. It’s like trying to convince yourself you won’t do an entire eight-ball in one night. Lies.
I want to see a truck on Bedford Avenue. I want to see a fuck all, massive, MONSTER TRUCK on Bedford Avenue. No impostors, I want tires that are 66 inches high and weigh 900 pounds. It doesn’t have to crush any cars or stylish people but it would be pleasant to watch it idle at the intersection of North 7th Street and Bedford for an hour or so.
If it could spit hot fire that would be an added bonus. I’m thinking Slayer to accompany the scene.
I saw an old friend last night and we talked about art and life at that place called ‘Tacu Tacu.’ It was enjoyable.
Then I had to wake up this morning and I thought to myself, they’re out ta get me. Decidedly so, I’m planning on taking a weekend trip in mid August to the fabled Marfa. That’s right, Texas. Perhaps I’ll take the night train to see the Marfa ghost lights. I’ll buy some Prada for my Michelle.
I’m going to need a breather before things really kick off in September. It’s so easy or so it seems. It also seems like I’ve been listening to Appetite for Destruction for the better part of the day and am bored to death. I want to be a rapper.
I bought a copy of Henry Miller’s World Of Sex for a dollar. I wasn’t looking for it but it found me. I can’t carry it with me to read because the brittle pages are disintegrating but it provides for an enjoyable read in the comfort of my home every evening.
I found this projector yesterday in front of my apartment, it is beautiful. It smells like it had been lying in the corner of an attic for decades. At one time or another I’m sure it was used to show slides from family vacations.
Last night I returned home at 2 a.m. and projected the light on my wall. I stared at the square on the wall and listened to the soothing hum of the machine while I smoked a cigarette.
–> Over the past couple of days I came to a realization. You are nothing in this world unless you have a bottle photograph.
–> A bottle photo? Yes, a bottle photo (see below).
–> Coffee table book. Bottles. Bottles in a book. It has promotional bonanza tattooed all over it. The contributors to this website have decided to take it upon themselves to collect these pictures and compile them into a hardbound book.
–> Why pose with bottles of alcohol in zi club? Shema Shev on Friday? It’s an interesting case study in psychology and more importantly sociology. Personally, I think the bottle photo is a thing of pure beauty. What better way to glamorize the truly special moments then by putting these photos in a super-glossy book?
–> Bottles. Fucking bottles. The book strokes the ego of alcohol companies and nightlife venues across the world… As well as the cynics. It’s genius. Endless hours of laughter and utter fascination.
–> The book will even have a few blank pages for you, the owner, to add your very bottle photographs! Oh the memories!! “Remember when I had two bottles in my hand and I was dancing??!!! OMFG. Bottles!”
–> Alcoholic beverage companies battling with their checkbooks to sponsor the book launch. Launch-cum-photo shoot for ‘Bottles II: <Insert company>.”
–> How can you make it into the hallowed pages? It’s simple!
Go to zi club
Find some bottles (Beer does not count)
Hold them.
Strike a pose.
Take a picture! (high res please)
Email it me Huqleberry@gmail.com
Pop bottles because you’ll live on forever! (EXCLAMATION POINTS!)
–> After scouring my iPhoto for ten minutes I had to face the music. A photo of me holding bottles doesn’t exist. Therefore, I am a loser. My tongue longs to taste the good life… A glimpse of something that would confirm my existence on this planet; something that would immortalize me (while balling of course. Big Ballin’). A bottle photo…
{Start with straight shots and then pop bottles} (ya)
{Flirt with the hood rats then pop models} (uh-huh)
{Start with straight shots and then pop bottles} (ya)
{Flirt with the hood rats then pop models}
-Bird Man Featuring Lil’Wayne (Yeah Fuck Yeah. Rappers)
After knowing him for over four years I still don’t really know him. What I do know is he is full of a bizarre/dystopian wisdom that can only be referred to as ‘Gundenisms.’
I’ve placed the burden upon my shoulders and have decided to keep a running record of these Gundenisms. It is his legacy.
I don’t need to go anywhere to become a prick. I’m already there.
I guess I’m too tired to be clever.
The Mighty Ducks put hockey on the map.
Ten is a solid number. I’m the one. She is the zero (Moves index finger in and out of crude finger circle). Boom.
SoCo and lime is liquid panty remover.
Don’t pay for the mussels. You pay for a full meal and you get a cock tease.
