One great thing about the West Coast is the sheer hangoutability of the place. Taking a picture of your buddy wearing a huge pair of pants is considered having done something that day and it means you can go back inside and drink another six-pack in front of the TV totally guilt-free.
The paradox of having a coy and gentle girl with badass tattoos is a double whammy of nice that either means she is a total prude trying to feign toughness or she is a well-educated farm girl who’ll wear high heels to bed. We’re going to assume it’s the latter.
In fact, the only thing better is stumbling across a whole bunch of women who order beer for themselves because they think gin and tonics taste gross. We love it in such a homo way it’s basically "on the DL."
Being punk in the winter is a lot like being stranded in a life raft. The only way you can survive is to throw the idea of cool shoes overboard (hence the industrial rubber boots) and focus all your punk rations where they count—up top with the living.
What is this guy, 14? How can someone who’s 14 be so much better than us? Fuck, his whole thing is perfect, from the old Sid Vicious neck chain to the new Casualties shirt. The only thing bad I could say about his look is that my dick isn’t in his mouth (just kidding).
Read 'em and weep: An embroidered back patch that says "Get Off My Cloud" complete with a fuck you finger that must have taken days to finish. She bought it off some crazy old stoner that did acid back when it was the size of a Lifesaver. Maybe we don’t hate hippies after all.
Ever get so horny you turn into Ernest Goes to Camp and frantically bust your nut in less than a minute? What are you supposed to do after that, say sorry? What are you, George Costanza? Luckily, this girl has a tattoo that encourages such behaviour. Just shrug your shoulders, point to it, and get on with your day.
Look at this dude, all alone doing his little shirky dance. He doesn't give a shit if you think he's weird and he's not here to make any new friends. He's just here to dance around in his pile of homemade clothes and do some new dances he invented. Shy is the new in-your-face.
One of the worst things about passing out wasted is pissing yourself. Even after your pants dry they smell bad and make you feel like a loser. In order to avoid this you may want to just pull your weiner out and let it breathe. However, if your penis is a foreskin-heavy sausage roll you may want to endure the wet pants and let people continue to imagine it’s more than a centimeter.
If you want to tell the world that pot is God's gift to man this winter, please be smart about it and keep warm. Instead of an irreverent t-shirt, carefully embroider your message on a Gore-Tex Patagonia pullover that zips up all cozy just like Bubbe wished it would.
You know when some naive art-school hippie tells you how she lost her virginity to a disgusting old forest-dwelling creep that basically tricked her into coming to his boat? Imagine she had a camera with her? She did. Now all you have to do is try not to imagine his red penis.
"Don't no motherfuckers do anything in this town without talking to Captain Garbage first. I run the garbage in this town. If you got a problem with your garbage, somethin' you can't fix, well, you come have a sit-down here with me in this garbage and I'm-a handle it. Simple as that."
Even in the 70s this dude would have been a knob. The Peter Gabriel is blaring, his eyes are closed, and he's imagining himself on top of a mountain with his stupid-ass girlfriend on a horse. He’s thinking, "One day man, I swear to God."
Not since the alchemists has one group of people been so determined to defy physics. For the last time junkies, you can't sleep standing up. If you want to take a nap go lie down on the side of the road. If you want all your problems to go away, roll over to the yellow line.
We're not sure what happened to electroclash. Everyone was into it (even us) and then it seemed to morph into a weird kind of drag-queen-talent-show thing and now look at it.