Interesting People on the Fringe: This Week - Tim Pinkston!
(Applause!)
'To Tim, wherever you may be…have another hit!'
‘The last time I saw Tim Pinkston was on a groggy, yet sunny, Sunday morning in what I think was 1992 at our place above Olive’s on Main Street in Ames, Iowa. Stingray had crashed at our place on the blue thing (a folding, foam guest bed, uncomfortable as hell but better than the wooden floor or even the couch), I was sacked out in my sleeping closet like a bat in the belfry, and Guy was zonked out in his room. Suddenly, there were male and female voices echoing the hallway outside and a loud rapping on the door. I think it was Guy who went to the door to see who was there. Suddenly, Tim burst in with his very-pregnant wife, whom we previously hadn't met and whose name escapes me--let’s just call her stupid. Tim was wearing a cheap toupee instead of the standard ball cap, flipping it up and down merrily after we had commented upon it’s roadkill-like character. Pinkston had left Ames a year and a half prior to this for better prospects, and after we asked him what he was doing nowadays, Tim handed out his Sears business cards, saying he was working in some sort of call center in St. Louis. In the perhaps hour and a half that he was there, he got all three of us extremely high in a cool, Sunday morning wake and bake, and then, as suddenly as he had arrived, he and his wife departed, never to be seen by any of us again.
‘Pinkston always had shown an interest in my pet Florida king snake, appropriately named, Mister Snake, so I once told him, “Take him, then…you can have him for a while,” which he did. Living with Tim must not have been pleasant for a reptile, as I noticed a very extreme change of behavior in Mr. Snake when I visited him at Tim's place. I would merely position myself in front of the wood and plexiglass cage, and Mr. Snake would strike at me like a viper, banging his head against the plexiglass. I’m not sure if Tim teased the shit out of him or what, but the formerly docile Mr. Snake was now practically unhandleable. So bad, it seems, that I eventually got the bitter creature back. Then, when Guy and I were refinishing the floors of our apartment in the rainy summer of 1990, we put the cage outside on top of the HVAC unit, which unfortunately cooked poor Mr. Snake. His burial, sorry to say, wasn’t befitting a king of a snake, and a once nice pet at that, but was more for the sake of convenience, as Guy and I just dumped him and the cage in the dumpster behind the bike shop on Main.
‘Tim was always up for some kind of crazy entertainment, like the time he had a bunch of bottle rockets, and he, Guy, Stingray and I engaged in bottle rocket warfare in an orchard near the apartment south of Ames. The object of the game, basically, was to hit the other parties in the game with a bottle rocket, launched from your hand. Now, kids, don’t try this at home, but if you want aiming accuracy, I recommend getting a plastic drink bottle with built-in straw from Quik Trip or some other convenience store. The screw-top lid makes a great heat shield from the launch, and you get pretty good aiming accuracy from the plastic straw itself. So we all split up, every man for himself, running through the nighttime darkness of the orchard in the late fall air. I eventually linked up with Tim, who gave me one of his secret weapons, a Roman candle. Very cool. We crept up toward the middle of the orchard, where our enemies of the evening, Guy and Stingray, were making the age-old mistake of a green infantryman; Odin knows how many souls have been sent to Valhalla by giving away their position in the darkness with the glowing tip of their cigarette. So, I had my targets on their smoking break. Lighting the Roman candle, I ran directly at the shadowy figures. Stingray sidestepped me quickly, trying to light a bottle rocket at the same time. Thud! Thud! Thud! The Roman candle found its target, burning a hole in Guy’s T-shirt and giving him a nice burn on the belly as well. After my attack, all four of us found ourselves along a road, when Stingray decided to launch a bottle rocket at a passing car. Suddenly, the car stopped, and a rather big dude got out and angrily came over toward us cursing. As luck would have it, it was an old buddy from Adelante Fraternity, Lance Messerly, so peace was made quickly and a possibly explosive situation defused.
‘I first met Tim when I lived in the luxurious halls of Fortress Immacula. Tim had a psychotic girlfriend (who hasn’t or doesn’t?) at the time, and both worked at Top of the Town. The psycho chick’s name escapes me now; for the sake of clarity, let’s just call her fucking insane. Anyway, she eventually left the picture for some odd reason. Tim used to like working the back bar at Top of the Town, mainly because he could blaze up a joint while working, sort of taking the edge off what could have been a stressful evening, but instead became mellow and relaxed.
‘Tim was a lanky, goofball character who lived with Todd Johnson and Stingray in that ground-floor apartment south of Ames, home to such weirdness like maple syrup titties, hacked up deer carcasses, branding rituals and big chocoloate dick cookie, as you well know. Tim suffered from an early affliction of male pattern baldness and compensated for this by always wearing a baseball cap, usually red. I think Tim, who hailed from Traer, Iowa, started out as a student at ISU, but soon graduated to stoner, setting aside his studies for partying and living the good life.
This week’s interesting person on the fringe is (drumroll, please) Tim Pinkston. Let’s hear it for Tim! (Applause.) Accepting the award this evening for Mr. Pinkston will be the Defensemaster. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! I'm sure Tim would have liked to be here to accept this honor himself, but since Tim couldn’t be here to explain himself in person, I will attempt to explain him for you.
'To Tim, wherever you may be…have another hit!'
‘The last time I saw Tim Pinkston was on a groggy, yet sunny, Sunday morning in what I think was 1992 at our place above Olive’s on Main Street in Ames, Iowa. Stingray had crashed at our place on the blue thing (a folding, foam guest bed, uncomfortable as hell but better than the wooden floor or even the couch), I was sacked out in my sleeping closet like a bat in the belfry, and Guy was zonked out in his room. Suddenly, there were male and female voices echoing the hallway outside and a loud rapping on the door. I think it was Guy who went to the door to see who was there. Suddenly, Tim burst in with his very-pregnant wife, whom we previously hadn't met and whose name escapes me--let’s just call her stupid. Tim was wearing a cheap toupee instead of the standard ball cap, flipping it up and down merrily after we had commented upon it’s roadkill-like character. Pinkston had left Ames a year and a half prior to this for better prospects, and after we asked him what he was doing nowadays, Tim handed out his Sears business cards, saying he was working in some sort of call center in St. Louis. In the perhaps hour and a half that he was there, he got all three of us extremely high in a cool, Sunday morning wake and bake, and then, as suddenly as he had arrived, he and his wife departed, never to be seen by any of us again.
‘Pinkston always had shown an interest in my pet Florida king snake, appropriately named, Mister Snake, so I once told him, “Take him, then…you can have him for a while,” which he did. Living with Tim must not have been pleasant for a reptile, as I noticed a very extreme change of behavior in Mr. Snake when I visited him at Tim's place. I would merely position myself in front of the wood and plexiglass cage, and Mr. Snake would strike at me like a viper, banging his head against the plexiglass. I’m not sure if Tim teased the shit out of him or what, but the formerly docile Mr. Snake was now practically unhandleable. So bad, it seems, that I eventually got the bitter creature back. Then, when Guy and I were refinishing the floors of our apartment in the rainy summer of 1990, we put the cage outside on top of the HVAC unit, which unfortunately cooked poor Mr. Snake. His burial, sorry to say, wasn’t befitting a king of a snake, and a once nice pet at that, but was more for the sake of convenience, as Guy and I just dumped him and the cage in the dumpster behind the bike shop on Main.
‘Tim was always up for some kind of crazy entertainment, like the time he had a bunch of bottle rockets, and he, Guy, Stingray and I engaged in bottle rocket warfare in an orchard near the apartment south of Ames. The object of the game, basically, was to hit the other parties in the game with a bottle rocket, launched from your hand. Now, kids, don’t try this at home, but if you want aiming accuracy, I recommend getting a plastic drink bottle with built-in straw from Quik Trip or some other convenience store. The screw-top lid makes a great heat shield from the launch, and you get pretty good aiming accuracy from the plastic straw itself. So we all split up, every man for himself, running through the nighttime darkness of the orchard in the late fall air. I eventually linked up with Tim, who gave me one of his secret weapons, a Roman candle. Very cool. We crept up toward the middle of the orchard, where our enemies of the evening, Guy and Stingray, were making the age-old mistake of a green infantryman; Odin knows how many souls have been sent to Valhalla by giving away their position in the darkness with the glowing tip of their cigarette. So, I had my targets on their smoking break. Lighting the Roman candle, I ran directly at the shadowy figures. Stingray sidestepped me quickly, trying to light a bottle rocket at the same time. Thud! Thud! Thud! The Roman candle found its target, burning a hole in Guy’s T-shirt and giving him a nice burn on the belly as well. After my attack, all four of us found ourselves along a road, when Stingray decided to launch a bottle rocket at a passing car. Suddenly, the car stopped, and a rather big dude got out and angrily came over toward us cursing. As luck would have it, it was an old buddy from Adelante Fraternity, Lance Messerly, so peace was made quickly and a possibly explosive situation defused.
‘I first met Tim when I lived in the luxurious halls of Fortress Immacula. Tim had a psychotic girlfriend (who hasn’t or doesn’t?) at the time, and both worked at Top of the Town. The psycho chick’s name escapes me now; for the sake of clarity, let’s just call her fucking insane. Anyway, she eventually left the picture for some odd reason. Tim used to like working the back bar at Top of the Town, mainly because he could blaze up a joint while working, sort of taking the edge off what could have been a stressful evening, but instead became mellow and relaxed.
‘Tim was a lanky, goofball character who lived with Todd Johnson and Stingray in that ground-floor apartment south of Ames, home to such weirdness like maple syrup titties, hacked up deer carcasses, branding rituals and big chocoloate dick cookie, as you well know. Tim suffered from an early affliction of male pattern baldness and compensated for this by always wearing a baseball cap, usually red. I think Tim, who hailed from Traer, Iowa, started out as a student at ISU, but soon graduated to stoner, setting aside his studies for partying and living the good life.
This week’s interesting person on the fringe is (drumroll, please) Tim Pinkston. Let’s hear it for Tim! (Applause.) Accepting the award this evening for Mr. Pinkston will be the Defensemaster. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! I'm sure Tim would have liked to be here to accept this honor himself, but since Tim couldn’t be here to explain himself in person, I will attempt to explain him for you.
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