It was 12 p.m. and I regrettably commented to Luke. “Man I wish we could’ve gone snowboarding today.” He raised one eyebrow and responded with “Who says we can’t?” Our mutual friend Dustin had called us an hour earlier raving about the freshly fallen snow, saying it was one of the best boarding days of the season. Real snow at Mountain High, the local resort that pumped the fake stuff all through the season, was kind of a big deal. It was one of those gloomy winter days that made it hard to distinguish when the sun was up or down. Freshly fallen snow was a friendly way of stating that it was a fucking blizzard up on the mountain. Not acknowledging this we grabbed our boards and headed east on the 118 freeway to Pearblossom Highway.
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Seriously. If you are heading east on Interstate 70 you’ll cross the Missouri River in Boonville. If you make a left at Slaton Blvd just past the forest, then a left on Rodgers and a quick right you will end up at 3571 Lakeview Dr. It’s a beautiful two story house laid in brick and surrounded by grass. This is the residence of Margret Pratt, my grandmother. She’s lived by herself in this Missouri home for the past 40 years. The first thing you will notice when you pull into the driveway is a mailbox with the name Glen Pratt on it (my grandfather). He died about 10 years before I was born. We were there for the funeral of his son Steven Pratt (my uncle), who shared the same fate as his father; a lifetime of smoking kept them both from seeing their 60th birthday. “Are you prude?” This immature, awkward, and offensive question was unfortunately the line I gave before I got my first kiss. Coming from a 7th grade boy who had never heard the word prude until about an hour ago, and didn’t really know what it meant, this might have seemed cute. My girlfriend who stood about an inch or two taller than me leaned over and planted one right on my lips. It was in the B quad of Valley View Jr High School during our 5-minute break between classes. I turned around and strutted to my next class while the Bee Gees hit song Stayin Alive played in my head. ” We’ll you can tell by the way I use my walk I’m a woman’s man no time to talk . . .” Last Thursday I attended the Downtown Los Angeles Artwalk. Every month the galleries in the neighborhood open their doors late at night for pedestrians to come in and enjoy the new art exhibits. The streets and sidewalks are packed with an eclectic mix of people. There are punk rockers, suites, bums, cops, hot chics, old chics, chics that are really dudes. There’s live music and tiny food vendors selling things like home made cookies with names such as ‘Your Mother’. So one might try a sample and then look to their friend and say, ” Mmmmm your mother is goood!” Continue reading The Incident Out of the 26 years I’ve spent on this earth, I would have to say through my experience that year 15 is the worst. You’re old enough to drive but you can’t do it without an adult in the car. You can’t do anything fun because you don’t have any money. You can’t get any money because you can’t get a job. You’re too old to build little ramps for your bike and skateboard. You’re too old to have sleepovers and make little forts where no parents are allowed. Thus, you are left with very few things to do. One summer, between 9th and 10th grade, I found something particularly unusual to occupy my time. For two weeks I volunteered at a wheelchair sports camp. It was run by my church and my parents strongly encouraged me to do it. “It will help you get work next year when you’re looking for a job, and it will look great on your college application” they enthusiastically explained. Which as it turns out couldn’t have been more right, McDonalds and Moorpark Community College were very impressed with my resume. Unlike the vast majority of my friends, I’ve never gotten a DUI. This is not to say I’m not a heavy drinker. I contribute this anomaly to my willingness to pass out anywhere and everywhere. A couch, a love seat, recliner, hardwood floor, truck bed. These are not only satisfactory places to lay my head when I’m drunk, but lofty promises that will surely close a deal if I’m on the fence about attending a local house party. In very rare occasions I have slept in such situations as: a neighbors front lawn, a rooftop, a stairway, and a restaurant booth. I recently got into an argument with a friend trying to defend one of my new favorite shows. LOST. While explaining to him that it’s basically the reason I started a netflix account, he gave me a look. It was a I haven’t seen 2 minutes of the show but I’m going to formulate some kind of opinion on it look. “LOST is just Gilligan’s Island on acid”, he condescendingly explained to me. It’s a week before my senior show. If my roommate comes back from Vegas early he will have a heart attack from seeing the shape our apartment is in. Dirty dishes in the living room, tubes of paint and brushes scattered around the kitchen cabinets. It would not be unusual to see something like a dirty shirt, a half eaten bowl of top ramen and a stack of notebooks and papers all lying together. I like to think of it as controlled chaos. It may look like a mess to an outsider, but I know where everything is. In art school about 5 years ago, we were asked to do a painting on someone we admired. The guidelines were there were no guidelines, the more abstract the better. I chose to do MJ. At first I thought of doing some epic montage of him in his different stages of life. This got frustrating because there was no still image I could create that would come close to capturing everything I love about him. So instead I decided to do a piece on what MJ is to Brian Pratt. Not to the world, not to the world of entertainment, but to me. Continue reading Growing up on MJ
step 1: Come up with a name for yourself that lets everyone know how much you rock. step 2. Find a way to mention your name in every song step 3. If 5 minutes have gone by and you haven’t reminded your audience how awesome you are, be sure to tell them again. Continue reading Kid Rocks 10 Easy Steps to Becoming Famous |
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