Skate Park Etiquette

This month I’m going to touch on the subject of keeping the park clean. I mean, what’s worse than hitting a fart rock at ten miles per hour?

This month I’m going to touch on the subject of keeping the park clean. I mean, what’s worse than hitting a fart rock at ten miles per hour? Well, it could be stepping in some douchebag’s chewed up gum in your brand new kicks.  I know that you don’t own the park or anything, but if you skate there on a daily basis it’s your unspoken job to clean that bitch up. … read more

Food Review: Road Island Diner

Greasy food, handmade desserts and dim lighting—the trifecta of honest road-side eating—have long made me a fan of this style of restaurant. 

Diners have always held a special place in my heart. Greasy food, handmade desserts and dim lighting—the trifecta of honest road-side eating—have long made me a fan of this style of restaurant.  As essential as the food is though, the setting can be even more important.  A great burger or a fantastic breakfast special can easily be overshadowed by chintzy décor or a poorly trained wait staff.  The opposite can also be true.  The right surroundings can make even average food seem immortal. It is in the combination of great food and an incredible atmosphere that the Road Island Diner really shines. … read more

Mike Brown: Things I Hate

So Snuggles, the guy who’s been illustrating my articles as of late, suggested that I write about my favorite possessions.

So Snuggles, the guy who’s been illustrating my articles as of late, suggested that I write about my favorite possessions, and that he would bring them to life via SLUG Magazine. I looked around my apartment for my favorite things and a massive writers block fell on my face. I’m sorry, Snuggles, but it’s so much easier for me to write about shit I hate. … read more

Inversion Trawler: Conny!

Aunt Leona, Oom and I were making our way through the front gate when we heard someone screaming “HELP! HELP!  SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!” 

Aunt Leona, Oom and I were making our way through the front gate and up the walk of Aunt Kate’s home, Weedpatch, when we heard a frantic female screaming, “HELP! HELP!  SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!”  It was a high-pitched, cartoon mouse of a voice, and we could hear the click click click of small but speedy steps accompanying the screams and coming toward us up the sidewalk.  … read more