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| OMFG! SUPER BOWL PARTY AT BURGERS... WITH MIKE WATT! |
| BLKPRJKT |
Compulsory overview shot.
This photo of Yamo would have made a perfect POWEREDGE magazine cover. Peedo represento.
For those who favor the smaller, rounder ball... Beer Pong™.
On Any Other Sunday--
The Super Bowl would be utterly meaningless to me unless it somehow coincided with something else far more interesting, and for the past couple of years, thanks to Becky and Lyle Burger, it has done just that. Prior to that, the last time Super Bowl Sunday actually mattered to me was the year in which it was played at Stanford University. On that particular Sunday, every pool and skate spot in town were a go, and 100% cop-free, all due to the Super Bowl requiring most of the law enforcement presence in 2 counties to keep the beer-swilling minions under some semblance of control. A 12 hour skate rampage ensued, covering nearly every known "bust" spot in the area. As far as football is concerned, I just don't get it. Never have, never will. A bunch of large dudes in spandex pants, helmets and shoulder pads, dogpiling each other... It just doesn't get me excited for some reason. But as I mentioned earlier, the Super Bowl now has an added value, based in what has become an annual barbecue / beer bust / bowl barney blast. This year's installment went off in typical fashion with a few new additional occurrences. Not the least of which happened to be JFA frontman Brian Brannon laying waste to the lip on his trusty 215's. Sorry about the wardrobe mixup Brian, next time text me to let me know whose shirt you wear, so we can avoid the creepy matching shirt drama.
Aaron Ebel switch carve over the stairs, AR is gnar.
Chix Dig Super Bowl Sunday.
Arsonists in the kitchen--
Rather than the standard burgers and dogs offerings of past years, Lyle and Becky drafted Trace Little to take over the mess hall and create some 35 gallons of incendiary chili. Casey, sweating and red-faced, took a seat next to me with a steaming bowl full. When I asked how it was, I was offered this gasped perfunctory warning: "It's fucking great, hot as hell, you should get some... but wait until Lyle isn't next to the pot, he will try to pour some black mamba hot shit in it and it will fuck you up." Apparently Lyle was in possession of some rather dangerous Guatemalan insanity pepper oil, and was lighting fires in peoples' guts with it. I managed to avoid Lyle and sample the ring-of-fire producing chili. Trace was on point, and some 15 minutes after finishing the first bowl, the feeling returned to my lips. The chili was a good call and instantly created a certain air about the place if you know what I mean. I took a tip from Sarge and cut the second helping with a couple of cornbread muffins, and a few Tecates for safety's sake.
New dad Billy Deans enjoys the bar life and wonders whether Lyle knows his Raiders aren't in today's game.
When MRZ wasn't looking this dude ran a Schroeder bomb over the stairs and in. We caught up to him later on this heavy Smith.
Sleep where you fall.
Dancing with the stars---
Along with the usual contingent that attends the annual football farce, a few rarely seen faces arrived in Westminster to do damage. The highly underground Tim Galvin (NOT Gavin) made the haul from Visalia to sample the chili and the bowl. Jeep was looking rather clean-cut with white shoes and a severe backside boneless over the stairs in the shallow. Kyle Gallagher uncorked some ridiculous lines and speed which the bowl could barely contain. Yamo, Los, Willy, and the rest of the Pedro crew were going off. A shorn Sean Mazza slipped in undercover and ripped it up. This is just how it goes over at the Burger Bowl. Super Bowl or not, heads show up in large numbers, too many to list in the A-to-Z fashion. Best in Show might easily have gone to the girl with the flask in her butt crack or maybe Big Jer's Jenny-Craig-like appearance and slim fit jeans. A few unplanned doubles runs went down, and in this particular bowl, the multiball effect can get pretty hairy, you're almost in danger of colliding with yourself when you're alone.
Big Jer with another perfect backside disaster.
Nobody knew Jim Gray wore shoes to match the pool tile until this Jim-Jam went wrong. Fashionable flail from an otherwise consistent ripper.
Casey enjoys a front side salad before laying the chili flamethrower to his gut.
Where The Fuck is Mike Watt---
That's right, Mike Fucking Watt. According to the rumor factory, Mike Watt was going to set up with his latest combo and play a backyard set. Of course with the vast amounts of chili and beer being consumed, and the skate energy getting hecklers and hair farmers pumped up, things began to reach the tipping point. An enebriated and possibly beer-bi-curious Ubernathy began dispensing hugs and pecks on the cheek, until he ran afoul of Willy. It seems that Saint Martin, the patron saint of drunks, may have been taking the day off to watch the Super Bowl and wasn't protecting his boozy flock. It might nearly have come to blows, but a few human barriers managed to partially defuse the fracas. Still, the anticipation of Mr. Watt's impending appearance was creating some rather bottled up energy amongst the entire crowd which was now overflowing into the streets. When Watt finally took to the stage, the whole backyard was rumbling. Once again our unprotected drunkard found himself on the receiving end of some hostilities, this time at the hands of Becky, the lady of the house. Lesson#412, Do NOT go for the microphone when Mike Watt is playing. At some point during the set, some of Westminster's finest rolled up out front and the word was passed to quiet down. The band paused and people tried to stand up straight momentarily. Becky told the band to play on, and the revelers to snap back into action. "Fuck it, this is our fucking house, we're going to do whatever the fuck we want on our property!" The police left empty-handed and the party raged on. By early evening as we were rolling out, it was still going full-tilt. This is pretty much the way just about every Sunday should be, football or no football. Oh yeah, and the guys in the black helmets beat the guys in the white helmets, whatever the fuck that might mean.
Johnny, pre-drunk mode...
...and later, in full effect. Becky regulates in the most proper fashion.
Parting shot. Mike Watt brings the the damage to Westminster.
Thanks Becky, Lyle, Mike, and the entire crew. Best Sunday afternoon in a good long while!
-BLKPRJKT / PHOTOS MRZ |
Wednesday 04th 2009f February 2009 21:14
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