they call him "the terminator"
things have been pretty crazy around here lately, what with visiting dignitaries (scrivenings, bobby alcott, smalldogs), the constant sound of builders building, the carving of pumpkins, and the fleeing of cats. so florian and i decided to get away for a night. we drove for miles along the delaware water gap, getting lost at least four times, ending up at a b&b whose greatest surprise (besides the collapsing outhouse out back) was the pool table sitting quietly in the dining room. luckily the outhouse was no longer in use, but the pool table's balls were racked and ready to go. i asked florian if he wanted to play later; "sure," he mumbled.
after a thoroughly mediocre dinner at what could have been a nice brewery (but was in fact a dive bar with food), we went back to the land of chintz and started to play. initially we both sucked. and then... well, i continued to suck, but florian got good. and i mean GOOD. turns out he'd played a fair amount back in his college days, twenty-odd years ago.
we played three games, and he kicked my ass every single time. it was so fucking fabulous, watching him line up a shot and then nail it. you know where you hit the ball hard, and it stops short right after it makes contact with the target? yeah. that. a lotta balls went in a lotta pockets, and i loved the clacking-enamel sound of ball landing on ball, like rocks in amelie's pocket.
at one point i texted bowman and said we had to get a game going in town. "sure," he wrote back, "if you want to lose LOL. they call me 'the shark.'"
it is so ON.
they call him "the terminator"
things have been pretty crazy around here lately, what with visiting dignitaries (scrivenings, bobby alcott, smalldogs), the constant sound of builders building, the carving of pumpkins, and the fleeing of cats. so florian and i decided to get away for a night. we drove for miles along the delaware water gap, getting lost at least four times, ending up at a b&b whose greatest surprise (besides the collapsing outhouse out back) was the pool table sitting quietly in the dining room. luckily the outhouse was no longer in use, but the pool table's balls were racked and ready to go. i asked florian if he wanted to play later; "sure," he mumbled.
after a thoroughly mediocre dinner at what could have been a nice brewery (but was in fact a dive bar with food), we went back to the land of chintz and started to play. initially we both sucked. and then... well, i continued to suck, but florian got good. and i mean GOOD. turns out he'd played a fair amount back in his college days, twenty-odd years ago.
we played three games, and he kicked my ass every single time. it was so fucking fabulous, watching him line up a shot and then nail it. you know where you hit the ball hard, and it stops short right after it makes contact with the target? yeah. that. a lotta balls went in a lotta pockets, and i loved the clacking-enamel sound of ball landing on ball, like rocks in amelie's pocket.
at one point i texted bowman and said we had to get a game going in town. "sure," he wrote back, "if you want to lose LOL. they call me 'the shark.'"
it is so ON.