Their rapport is touching, almost innocent – the sort of relationship born out of chance meetings amid the ravages of war.
They're assholes, but interesting, almost aspirational – the sort of men who tell you existential ennui excuses everything.
Snoop is confident, almost hyperalert, the sort of smoker who can function despite his high, while Wiz fades in and out of directness, sometimes rapping like he's skipping a bar here and there.
He's a laconic old surfer, someone who seems permanently chilled, almost vague, the sort of dude you can imagine as a teenager reading the album sleeve of Pink Floyd's The Wall and going, "yeah man, this is the sheeeeeet".
On the basis of their commentary, they're almost definitely the sort of people who'd neck all the wine on the table, whoop during the speeches, start a fight and then end up dishevelled and crying and telling you that nobody loves them by about seven o'clock.
Crocker says it is almost exactly the sort of thing the Fourth Amendment was written to prevent.
That's the thing about shelling, really: at first, it almost seems like the sort of mundane activity you think you'd want to avoid, but it only takes finding that first perfectly preserved, harder-to-find shell to get you hooked.
According to Boyd (1988: 213; cf. Brink 1989: 202 3; Sturgeon 1988: 229), "careful philosophical examination will reveal … that agreement on nonmoral issues would eliminate almost all disagreement about the sorts of moral issues which arise in ordinary moral practice".
But I can imagine with almost crystalline detail the sort of feelings I might have felt, at that age, if my parents had taken me to a restaurant with singing waiters and somehow made me the center of attention.
