Yet again, I have sustained injury due to the prolific use of my BlackBerry and moderate addiction to Twitter. As detailed in an earlier post, I had a slight slip-up while composing a tweet on some stairs that resulted in a bitch of a sprained ankle. You would think I’d have limped away with some kind of lesson learned and perhaps seared into my gray matter á la Pavlovian response. Nope.

Last night, fresh of the subway, a bit drunk and walking the home stretch to my building, I whipped out my trusted BlackBerry and let my thumbs start tapping away a tweet, all without breaking stride. Head down and absorbed in the glow of the screen, I walked head-first into a steel pole. Nice, right?

I struck the pole with a fair amount of momentum, though whether it be by virtue of the alcohol in my system or the fact that I have a rather hard head, I didn’t really feel much pain, nor did I knock my ass out cold.

Unfortunately, there were a fair amount of witnesses, but I managed to quickly recover and continue as if I had not just completely pulled a “dumb drunk walking” moment. The whole episode was a matter of seconds.

However, this morning my forehead has been graced with quite a nicely-sized and tender lump. I’m sure that in 24-48 hours it will be gone, but until then, it serves as a reminder of the dangers of tweeting while walking in even a mild state of inebriation. At some point (I swear), there will come a time where I will have learned my lessons concerning BlackBerries and perambulation.

On Saturday, I managed to survive two concerts back to back. Starting at four, I went to ABC No Rio for Coffins. Never will I go back there. The place is a tiny, cramped shithole, with no bathroom, alcohol or ventilation. It was disgustingly hot. I lasted fifteen minutes in there before common sense and a bit of chew-my-own-leg-off animal frenzy drove me out to an Australian bar across the street to down beers with other like-minded Australian metalheads. I would have liked to catch the opening bands, but fuck that oppressive shit, I just checked back every couple of beers till Coffins went on.

The band was great, although I had trouble seeing them. A stage to elevate things would have been much better. Coffins was loud enough that flecks of the ceiling were dislodged by sonic vibration, raining down on the people in front of me. They played a good set and I enjoyed seeing them live for the first time, but fuck that venue.

Here’s a few photos of Coffins live.

After leaving that hellhole, I shared a cab with some Australians to Williamsburg (they were going to see the next Coffins show of the evening, at a proper venue) and rushed my ass to the Music Hall of Williamsburg for The Sword. I hung out downstairs in the bar, getting fairly buzzed at this point, skipping the first opening band and a bit of Stinking Lizaveta. Eventually I headed up to the hall and hooked up with a buddy of mine.

Stinking Lizaveta was pretty good, though I can’t say I was really into them that much. Still, they were far from sucky. Torche was entertaining. I’d nabbed one of their albums a few weeks prior, just to check them out and really wasn’t into them at all. Live was a different story, though. They were pretty solid. Good enough that I later revisited the album I had and can definitely appreciate it more. Often, seeing a band live makes you a fan far more than an album will (or vice versa).

Finally, The Sword. Those Texas fuckers tore the goddamn roof off. They were even better than the first time I saw them live. It was one of those “Holy shit, this rocks” moments. My neck is still quite sore from headbanging. Of course, at this point, I was pretty much thoroughly shitfaced, lost and at sea in stupid drunk land, rambling and weaving. At one point I recall chucking a plastic cup with the dregs of my beer out over the heads of the audience, something that horrifies me, because it would have really pissed me off if I were on the receiving end. Oops. Sorry. It was, the booze not me. Swear it.

Here’s a bunch of photos from that show.

This morning, I rushed onto the 2/3 train, heading into work, managing to catch a seat. As I settled, I spotted my upstairs neighbor a bit farther down the car from where I was sitting. I was about to wave when a man sitting next to where she was standing leaned over a let loose a massive wave of multi-colored puke onto the floor, liberally splattering her legs and feet.

Not even pausing for a moment of shock, she runs from the train, barely making it past the closing doors; I assume to go home and clean up. People quickly start moving to my end of the car. Meanwhile, Mr. Yakkity continues to hurl forth streams of joy and partial digestion.

For three whole stops, the man kept barfing. He must have had a second stomach or something, because it was fucking impressive. Someone gave him a bottle off water and some napkins and eventually, the torrent of chunks tapered off and stopped.

After wiping off his backpack, the guys stays on the train (thanks for that, buddy) and just slides down the bench, away from the scene of the crime and acts like nothing happened.

Gross, yet slightly exciting. I wish more morning commutes were like this.

This photo pretty much explains one of the prime things I dislike about Brooklyn—breeders with double strollers and a fucked up sense of entitlement, coupled with a total lack of awareness of how disgusting they are to the rest of the non-breeding world.

I snapped this shot as I was walking down Atlantic Avenue this past Saturday. The stupid-ass bitch’s stroller was completely blocking the only entrance to the store. Fuck anybody else getting into the place, the lady needs her shit, now.

On top of this obnoxious obstruction, she has a double stroller with only one kid. These buggies are a constant aggravation and eyesore in my area of Brooklyn, whether they be slowly strolling, taking up the entire sidewalk or completely blocking aisles in the supermarket, they fucking suck and so do the people that abuse them.

I was a little surprised yesterday to fire up my trusty Google Reader and see that some dude who lived 2 blocks over from me was stabbed in the side of the head with a corkscrew and killed. When I say surprised, I don’t mean the fact that someone was murdered in my neighborhood. People get killed or at least shot and stabbed on a fairly consistent basis in my neighborhood. Mostly, it’s gang-on-gang bullshit and/or drugs. Rather, I was surprised at the fact the crime made the news. Since violent crime in my area is 90% black-on-black violence and usually not involving children, the news never covers it. You can be sure this sudden attention was entirely due to the novelty factor of the corkscrew.

I’ve no shame in admitting that I burst out laughing at the mental picture of it all. Working for a wine magazine all I could think of was…

“THIS…*screw*…WINE…*screw*…IS…*screw*…FUCKING…PISS!!!!”

Seeing High On Fire play live for my first time this past Sunday was absolutely epic. There was literally no room except to stand in the club and I managed to to get right up close to the stage and marvel, mouth agape like a halfwit at the epic output of Matt Pike. I have never seen a person so charged and possessed by the music they’re playing. The dude is a Metal juggernaut. I was amazed and fully fucking entertained.

I’d eaten a rather pricey ticket to another concert that I’d purchased prior to finding out about the High On Fire gig. It was a totally worthy loss. I had a great time and I nailed a pretty sweet t-shirt. Next time, I’m pulling some strings to get backstage.

Anyway, I took photos. Arguably, a retarded amount of them, but hey, I fucking love High On Fire. You can find the complete set of the night here.

I’m seeing High On Fire, live in Brooklyn this Sunday. I’ve never seen them play before. I’m getting apeshit excited. My camera will be charged and my blood/alcohol content will be high. High On Fire is an awesome band. Matt Pike wakes up in the morning and after a bowl of Cheerios, just starts shitting Stoner riffs all over the place. The man is a fucking Metal machine. Their last three albums are some of the best recordings I own. I’m cannot fucking wait. It better not get canceled at the last second or any such bullshit.

A few nights ago, I went to see Mastodon and Neurosis at a Masonic Temple (of all places). The concert was okay, nothing special as far as I’m concerned. Here’s a link to a set of photos of the show, mostly of Mastodon since Neurosis played under far too dark lighting conditions.

Anyway, there I was with a number of drinks in me. I started thinking to myself, “When the hell am I going to get another chance to be in a Masonic Temple?” So, armed with my trusty camera, I started exploring the building, leaving the performance area and heading up to unoccupied floors. Aside from the stairwells and landings, the floors were unlit. I started heading down dark hallways, using my camera flash to navigate.

Next thing I know, I’m in this big room where I’m guessing the ceremonies take place. There was a funky altar/podium and all these large, ornate chairs. There was even a throne-like one set at the head, on a raised platform. The whole room was very church-like and fumbling around in the dark as I was, kinda creepy. I took a bunch of photos and on my way out, completely blind, I snapped a photo so could see where the exit was and lo and behold, I’m standing in front of a coffin, propped against the wall.

Anyway, here’s a set of the photos I took (minus most of the random shit ones I took just to see where I was going) of my exploration of the temple. Pretty neat, I think.

This weekend, as I was standing on the platform of my local Brooklyn subway station, heading into Manhattan for pizza, I noticed this homeboy coming down the stairs on the the opposite platform across from me. His winter hat was pulled low, covering his right eye completely with the obligatory puffy coat and too low pants represented. Noticing his shuffling gait, I got the idea that this guy was some strain of seriously fucked up; stoned, drunk…something.

I guess I my attention had shifted for a moment, but when I looked back, the guy was suddenly on his ass in the middle of the train tracks. On an almost completely deserted platform, he’d managed to somehow lose his balance and take an ass-dive off the edge.

Struggling to get up at a pace conveying that he didn’t catch the gravity of where gravity had landed him, the few people that were around yelled at him to get the fuck up and off the tracks because a train was coming (although it was a decent distance away, well enough to stop if warned sufficiently) and a woman ran up the stairs to alert the station agent. Finally standing, the guy shuffled around a bit like a zombie, before deciding that the best idea was to go to the middle space between the Brooklyn and Manhattan-bound tracks. So, he steps up onto the third rail covering, which, as unreliable and fucked up as he was, is a supremely retarded choice of foot placement, regardless of the the barrier shield above the electrified rail. More yelling at him ensues and eventually he shuffles back to the edge of the platform and a woman and a young man haul him up to safety, where he promptly drops his ass onto a bench and zones.

Pretty much everyone had their hearts in their throats the whole time, except me. Not only did I not feel sympathy, I was kind of rooting for the train to paste him. If the fuck is stupid enough to get that trashed and try and take a train, he’s basically earned his spot as professional rail-grease. The world doesn’t need his genetic pollution. I only wish I’d remembered to take a shot with my phone’s camera.

I’ve just returned from work and a quick trip to the supermarket for arugula and beers (awesome combo, you don’t have to tell me). As I was walking home from the store in my neighborhood (Prospect Heights, Brooklyn), I noticed by a woman walking her poodle down the street in the opposite direction from me.

As I came closer, I saw some small, stick-like thing hanging out of the dog’s mouth. From a distance, my first thought was, “That’s a cigarette!”, but I have shit vision, even with contacts. But, sure enough, as the dog came closer I distinctly saw an unlit cigarette poking out of it’s mouth. The death-stick was whole, slightly damp in some parts, but complete and smokable.

The owner, who was walking slightly ahead of the poodle, seemed wholly oblivious as I can only assume she wouldn’t condone her pet’s addictive habit. My guess is the dog picked it up off the street, managing by coincidence to get it oriented correctly, filter-first and at the perfect smoking angle. The poodle really looked like he was just trying to get a light for it’s smoke. I would have obliged, had I been packing matches.