Wish We Weren't Friends

Earthquakes Couldn’t Stop This ‘Stache

Alex — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 02:25:13 +0000

Hola chicas,

Here´s what my morning might look like if I had a job.

–Mike

How May I Service You?

Admin — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 18:32:10 +0000

Greetings From The Snowpine Lodge (a.k.a. Man Camp)

As I sit here gently rubbing the bristles above my lip, I watch the snow fall and contemplate yet another winter passing by. Last winter, I had luxurious accommodations at 232 NW Congress St, where the moustache to man ratio was 1:1. Things were looking up. Alex had a struggling business and daily arguments with T. Colla. I was a flourishing “Life Coach”, who’s company was charging students $60,000+ a year for our “services”. All was well…

Autumn brought not only a change of leaves to our hero. I was now an “out of work” Life Coach. The loving relationship between the Pie Cart Guys was on the brink. Lack of funds forced me down to Mendo for under the table migrant labor, while receiving government aide, directly deposited to my account. “Movember” came along, which called for an unruly moustachio in celebration of John Wesley Powell, as I embarked on a three-week jaunt down the Grand Canyon, saturated in mushrooms and waterfalls.

I am currently Happy Hour Liaison at the Snowpine Lodge in Alta, UT. The staff consists of seven men. The canyon consists of many men. I have a moustache. I shaved it the other day. Anything can happen now and I know my old friend will comfort me.

Cheers to the North!

MOUSTACHE MARCH 2010!

Mairk — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 02:18:01 +0000

It’s time for celebration Moustache March is upon us.

“A man without a moustache is like a cup of tea without sugar”

Sasquatch Sighting ‘09

Alex — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 04:56:25 +0000

This is how happy living THAT far away from Hanover will make a man.

         In the hopes of escaping the dreadful autumn rat race of Hope, Alaska (population 137) our beloved Sean included Bend, OR with Maui and Las Vegas in his annual Autumn Barbapalooza vacanza of hippie speedballs, adventure sports and satirical American literature. He ate bacon, climbed Terrrebonne’s famed Monkey Face, and called a blind-behind-the-back-bank shot at the bar pool table in front of a gaggle of gapers.
            One afternoon, between thermi of French press and his third tobacco-heavy "persie," Squatch managed to channel his inner sexual zen and use our pre-9/11 magnetic poetry to leave a lyrical musing on the Mackay/Bacon fridge.

wet fat farts whisper below
buzz chirp flow regret
stop
liquid? lie sacrifice
embrace the hot rainbow with thundering silence
like an lighting owl without a window
reach search blow dusk storm
corduroy soft
velvet despair blooms for eternity
and
as the old sparrow leaves streaming color
joy & spring die within her
he jumps
her soft silent eyes farm tears
as the slow hot breeze float as fragrant sorrow
deep dark color
surrounding us like islands in ocean
or a
pond around a tadpole
how why
&
east west
ice clouds of rain appear above her love
she reveals her heart
no air horizon reflection or livelihood
crickets cry with
every man
I almost never create a stir
sigh

Just like Kingsford Road in 10th grade.

When I returned from work, where I had made 4 gallons of blue cheese dressing from scratch with my bare hands, Sean recited his art over cocktails, much like the ones you see above. Mitch giggled and I rubbed my face, happy to once again share in a moment with our hairy, untamed friend, a rare sighting in the Lower 48.

Labor Day Baseball 2009

Alex — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 14:33:03 +0000

THIS WEEK IN JOBS: A PHOTO ESSAY

Gabe — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 03:45:41 +0000

Hey, Noah, lookie over here! This is MY Emmy I won last month.

The Cherry Popper

Alex — Wed, 06 May 2009 05:19:52 +0000

The first time I truly got drunk – not including a few games of just the tip in Noah’s basement with Sean, a 12-pack of Coors Original, and some oregano – was at my house, sophomore year, after winter exams.

My parents had gone to inspect lava rock in the Canadian Rockies or bike across Kazakhstan or some such thing, leaving me alone on Occom Ridge with sixty bucks, Esker, and a computer that downloaded porn slower than my hand jack would have liked.

My best friend at the time, Rian Wenti, had effortlessly constructed a Power Hour Mix CD on his computer in “The Basement.” Brian’s computer had always been good to us, giving us Hellcats, AOL chatrooms, and Jenny McCarthy’s unbleached pubic hair.

For a couple of handjobs, Bom Tirner got us a 24-pack of Bud Light.

Around noon, we finished our last tests, grabbed our backpacks from our lockers on the downstairs hallway, stared at Tiffany’s tomboy boobs, and high-tailed it to my house.

Up in my room, me, Brian, and someone who I can’t remember (most likely Gabe, which is embarrassing to admit) poured beer into Mexican shot glasses, while Aerosmith, Primus, and Everclear blasted on my 3-disc changer.

60 minutes, 60 shots of beer. Every minute the song changed - in this case from Sweet Baby James to Black Hole Sun.

Brian and I had figured out, repeatedly, that:
1 shot = 1.5 oz
60 shots = 90 oz
1 beer = 12 oz
60 shots = 7.5 beers

Seven-and-a-half beers in an hour. We were assured of being drunk.

All the while, Max was supposed to come over. Yes, that’s right, this story is about Max. He was supposed to come over, but he was at Marty and Nancy’s. They were out of town too, at a furniture expo or a swingers party or something, all of which was expected by that time in our drinking careers - or lack there of. Max kept telling us on the phone that he was just going to take one more tequila shot and then he was going to come over.

After the power hour, I’m not sure exactly what happened. I know that I pulled my pants down in that closet-of-a-downstairs bathroom and Brian took a picture of my hairy ass. We forget that at 16, my ass hair was an international point of interest. I still have the Polaroid someplace in a shoebox, on top of a bunch of letters from a recovering alcoholic I consistently enabled for blacked-out sex in college.

(Do it all again in a second.)

Anyways, back in Hanover, we made our way to the bottom of my hill, where H5 used to pick me and Bill Wittinger up to go to the Ray School.

We were standing around, shitfaced, and Max came running down the hill from the direction of Webster Avenue. It was the end of January, with snow banks surrounding us, and he was wearing that stupid Mardi Gras tee shirt, his faded jeans, and some shitty pair of Asics running shoes. His face and his bare arms were bright red. His grand entrance crescendoed when he rammed face-first into a snow bank at our feet, bursting with joy and excitement from managing to get so drunk.

(Gabe) and Brian went off, probably to check in with their parents, and Max and I marched ourselves straight to EBA’s, where we managed to organize a booth. As we all can imagine, he was completely impossible to deal with. He wanted to hear nothing of him being mentally handicapped in public. He was going to be loud, and stupid, and when I didn’t play along, he was glad to start some sort of altercation to entertain himself.

Max may have gone to the salad bar after ordering, I can’t completely remember, but it makes sense. When his EBA Chicken Sandwich with everything came, he covered both sides in ketchup and carefully folded over the bun.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, as he got up from the booth, his sandwich untouched.

Soon, the waitress came.

Out on Allen Street, Max had projectile vomited all over the sidewalk. I came in time to witness a the steaming, pink trajectory splashing off the concrete onto the brown, melting snow.

“I gotta get out of here,” he said, hunched over and spitting, puke all over the front of that stupid shirt.

Later on that day, Max called me from his house.

“I walked to Ledyard Bridge and got a ride home from Hrian Bunt’s dad.

“I’m never going to drink again.”

Max May

Alex — Mon, 04 May 2009 22:42:21 +0000

SK sent me this photo to end our content drought. It made me realize we could just write and talk about Max for the rest of the month and solve a lot of our "lack of creativity" problems.

Saul also suggested starting a TEXT MESSAGE OF THE WEEK box on the front page. Because he’s on his way to JOKE ERASED FROM EXISTENCE DUE TO COMPLAINT, I thought I’d just chime in with my favorite Max text from the last few months.

High school cheerleading on ESPN2

Send in your stories, texts, voicemails and suggestions to admin@wishwewerentfriends.com

Moustache For Life?

Admin — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 14:47:06 +0000

The Black Person

Admin — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 15:08:02 +0000

In the last wee hours of Moustache March comes this gem of a photoshoot.