My good friend Mike Daily saves everything.
He is an archivalist.
Recently, Mike sent me an email with cullings he collected from the archives of our communications over the year.
Below are some of them:
PINK ELEPHANTS
"never heard an elephant..."
ebbed out of his snout
before blacking out.
******
PARKING
did the usual - find the
farthest space away
and park. this theory
eliminates the UPCLOSE
psychos and allows
for an easy exit. my
quarter panels thank
me for this. the
buffalos on the
Dumbarton bridge are
on my mind. big bronze
bison - guarding
******
ME AND MY HOT ASS
sitting on the dryer in
the Drury Lane wash room.
watching Lee wash his
bong. talking about
the lack of emotions -
the going through of
motions. it's New Year's
Eve 1992.
******
RELAX
Drinking with my friends
only they're not here
to hear
me.
It's make-believe
because somethimes that's
how it has got to be.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Makin' Good On Promises
So I managed to come through on my desire to start exercising my fat ass.
I went for a bike ride today as well as yesterday.
I love riding my bike.
I do.
I'm currently sporting a 24 inch Mongoose Brawler.
It's real nice because it captures the essence of those days of my youth spent cruising around looking for jumps on my PK Ripper but also is sized slightly larger and has a short wheel base ideal for trail riding.
I felt like I could have riden forever today.
Like back in the day when I'd ride from my parents house in suburban Maryland down through Rock Creek Park and into DC.
Me and my buddy Scooby. We say we were going to ride to the National Zoo but we'd eventually end up at some bar and then skip off on every imaginable trail on the way back home. I'm talking a good twelves hours or more in the saddle. We lived on our bikes.
Scooby was short for Scooby Doo because he was a black guy with a flat-top fade like Big Daddy Kane in the late '80s and he looked like the cartoon character.
We all had nicknames.
My whole BMX crew and those loosely surrounding the BMX mecca that was Rockville BMX. The most noted alum of Rockville BMX is film maker Spike Jonze.
There was Nubby who used to get me in all sorts of trouble in high school. Nubby was the kind of guy who would say he's picking you up at 10pm and not show up until 11:30pm.
In high school mind you.
But my parents loved Nubby so I generally got away with murder hanging out with Nubby and Scooby.
My name was, and still is, Greg E. Boy.
Eventually, I would end up working as a courier at a place called Topel Blueprinting in Silver Spring, Maryland.
Scooby's older brothers both worked there - his brother Stephen was the spitting image of Weird Harold from Fat Albert. Notice something about this family? They all looked like cartoon characters who had come to life.
One day when I had come back from my spring semester at Towson State and resumed my summer job at Topel, I spotted Rodney (www.dangerouspies.com) wearing a tie standing on the median strip in downtown Silver Spring.
"What are you doing Rod?" I asked him because he didn't look comfortable wearing a tie.
"Man, this shit sucks!" he hollered into my open car window.
"I got to find me a job," he said.
Two days later, Rodney was working at as a courier with Scooby, Nubby and myself. By our bosses, we were affectionately known as the Dickie Boys. Oh, I can't forget The Wedge. The Wedge looked like Slash. He did.
It was commom knowledge around the office that Thursdays meant $2 pitchers of Rolling Rock at Cagney's in Dupont Circle. The bosses used to take bets to see which one of us would be the most hungover, be late or worse yet, who wouldn't show on Friday.
It was usually Rodney who was M.I.A. Because Rodney was a man whore.
Anyway, back to the bike: I've forged lifelong friendships through riding BMX. These guys are like brothers to me. And although I haven't spoken with some in years (Nubby does nothing but ride his Ducati sports motorcycle; Scooby is a mountain bike guide in Boulder, Colorado, where he claims he's "the only black man" and likes it that way), but if I saw them tomorrow I know it would be like we never skipped a beat.
And the stories we could tell...
I went for a bike ride today as well as yesterday.
I love riding my bike.
I do.
I'm currently sporting a 24 inch Mongoose Brawler.
It's real nice because it captures the essence of those days of my youth spent cruising around looking for jumps on my PK Ripper but also is sized slightly larger and has a short wheel base ideal for trail riding.
I felt like I could have riden forever today.
Like back in the day when I'd ride from my parents house in suburban Maryland down through Rock Creek Park and into DC.
Me and my buddy Scooby. We say we were going to ride to the National Zoo but we'd eventually end up at some bar and then skip off on every imaginable trail on the way back home. I'm talking a good twelves hours or more in the saddle. We lived on our bikes.
Scooby was short for Scooby Doo because he was a black guy with a flat-top fade like Big Daddy Kane in the late '80s and he looked like the cartoon character.
We all had nicknames.
My whole BMX crew and those loosely surrounding the BMX mecca that was Rockville BMX. The most noted alum of Rockville BMX is film maker Spike Jonze.
There was Nubby who used to get me in all sorts of trouble in high school. Nubby was the kind of guy who would say he's picking you up at 10pm and not show up until 11:30pm.
In high school mind you.
But my parents loved Nubby so I generally got away with murder hanging out with Nubby and Scooby.
My name was, and still is, Greg E. Boy.
Eventually, I would end up working as a courier at a place called Topel Blueprinting in Silver Spring, Maryland.
Scooby's older brothers both worked there - his brother Stephen was the spitting image of Weird Harold from Fat Albert. Notice something about this family? They all looked like cartoon characters who had come to life.
One day when I had come back from my spring semester at Towson State and resumed my summer job at Topel, I spotted Rodney (www.dangerouspies.com) wearing a tie standing on the median strip in downtown Silver Spring.
"What are you doing Rod?" I asked him because he didn't look comfortable wearing a tie.
"Man, this shit sucks!" he hollered into my open car window.
"I got to find me a job," he said.
Two days later, Rodney was working at as a courier with Scooby, Nubby and myself. By our bosses, we were affectionately known as the Dickie Boys. Oh, I can't forget The Wedge. The Wedge looked like Slash. He did.
It was commom knowledge around the office that Thursdays meant $2 pitchers of Rolling Rock at Cagney's in Dupont Circle. The bosses used to take bets to see which one of us would be the most hungover, be late or worse yet, who wouldn't show on Friday.
It was usually Rodney who was M.I.A. Because Rodney was a man whore.
Anyway, back to the bike: I've forged lifelong friendships through riding BMX. These guys are like brothers to me. And although I haven't spoken with some in years (Nubby does nothing but ride his Ducati sports motorcycle; Scooby is a mountain bike guide in Boulder, Colorado, where he claims he's "the only black man" and likes it that way), but if I saw them tomorrow I know it would be like we never skipped a beat.
And the stories we could tell...
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Weighing In
I started wearing a belt years ago when my waistline girth started to exceed it's proper limits.
Weigh gain first started to appear on my lean frame in the mid-'90s, after I moved from
Los Angeles to North Carolina. The year was 1995 and it would be the time when I first became working in the food service industry.
I skipped around hotel jobs like being a bellman at The Washington Duke Inn (which is across the street from Duke University) until finally ladning decent part-time work as a banquet server at Hope Valley Country Club in Durham. It was here that I first noticed my belly starting to bulge.
It was easy to get to as employee meals where usually left over food from the wedding reception of cocktail party. You never really felt like you were eating a lot because your intake was done by constant grazing: a few appetizers here and couple of rolls of bread there, maybe plate of mash potatoes downed after the shift. Brunch for me was the ideal shift, although most people hated it, because you had unlimited access to bacon, pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fruit.
Eventually, like most places I've worked where food is served, you get bored of seeing the same selections over and over again, get sick of the taste and curb your appetite.
The I got a full-time job working at a weekly newspaper.
I had scored the dream job: music editor.
The downside was that it involved sitting on my ass in a cubicle for 8 to 10 hours a day.
And then there was the daily lunch trip with my co-worker the Reverend Gene Slax, he of the red pen and copy edit God. Suddenly, there was many options: chicken philly sandwiches, great pizza and extraordinary sandwich shops. Life was good. Slax often busted on me for looking pregnant so I would push my belly out and rub it just to taunt him.
Enter the belt.
It allowed me to strap it up or down a notch depending on my mood. Around that time, it was customary to ride it on the third notch.
Things went sour years later and I got laid off.
So it was back to catering. Only this time none of my black pants fit. I had gone from a 32 inch waist to a 36 inch waist. I needed new clothes.
I trimmed down a bit and many rode the fourth notch.
And it was like that for years.
Then last year the whole chronic sinus infection-turned-into-sudafed-overdosing and I found myself making constant trips to the doctor's office. Each trip required a weigh in.
At my heaviest, I remember tipping the scales at about 173 pounds.
I tried to get into excising, but my first son had been born by now and finding the time and energy wasn't quite as easy as I hoped it would be.
I maintained a good 168 pound frame for many moons and was comfortable at the belt's fourth notch. Some days, when manual labor was required of me, I'd slipped it up to the fifth notch, making my jeans or pants snug enough to avoid any gangsta-styled baggy sagging.
Then just the other day it happened: I felt like I needed to hit the fifth notch.
I reached down to adjust my belt, and lo and behold, I already was on the fifth notch.
I tried hitting six but that was far too tight.
Dumbfounded because I had made no real attempt to lose weight only changing my diet by reducing dairy for it caused too much havoc on my sinuses, I decided to step on the scale in the bathroom.
158.
Damn. Haven't seen myself under 160 in quite some time. I hope to seize this moment to jump into some spring time exercise routine (of minimal effort) by riding my bike and doing a few simple sets of push-ups and sit-ups.
Although, I can say I've never felt the slightest bit concerned about my girth and I have no desire to get back to my lean 135 pound college days frame.
Weigh gain first started to appear on my lean frame in the mid-'90s, after I moved from
Los Angeles to North Carolina. The year was 1995 and it would be the time when I first became working in the food service industry.
I skipped around hotel jobs like being a bellman at The Washington Duke Inn (which is across the street from Duke University) until finally ladning decent part-time work as a banquet server at Hope Valley Country Club in Durham. It was here that I first noticed my belly starting to bulge.
It was easy to get to as employee meals where usually left over food from the wedding reception of cocktail party. You never really felt like you were eating a lot because your intake was done by constant grazing: a few appetizers here and couple of rolls of bread there, maybe plate of mash potatoes downed after the shift. Brunch for me was the ideal shift, although most people hated it, because you had unlimited access to bacon, pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fruit.
Eventually, like most places I've worked where food is served, you get bored of seeing the same selections over and over again, get sick of the taste and curb your appetite.
The I got a full-time job working at a weekly newspaper.
I had scored the dream job: music editor.
The downside was that it involved sitting on my ass in a cubicle for 8 to 10 hours a day.
And then there was the daily lunch trip with my co-worker the Reverend Gene Slax, he of the red pen and copy edit God. Suddenly, there was many options: chicken philly sandwiches, great pizza and extraordinary sandwich shops. Life was good. Slax often busted on me for looking pregnant so I would push my belly out and rub it just to taunt him.
Enter the belt.
It allowed me to strap it up or down a notch depending on my mood. Around that time, it was customary to ride it on the third notch.
Things went sour years later and I got laid off.
So it was back to catering. Only this time none of my black pants fit. I had gone from a 32 inch waist to a 36 inch waist. I needed new clothes.
I trimmed down a bit and many rode the fourth notch.
And it was like that for years.
Then last year the whole chronic sinus infection-turned-into-sudafed-overdosing and I found myself making constant trips to the doctor's office. Each trip required a weigh in.
At my heaviest, I remember tipping the scales at about 173 pounds.
I tried to get into excising, but my first son had been born by now and finding the time and energy wasn't quite as easy as I hoped it would be.
I maintained a good 168 pound frame for many moons and was comfortable at the belt's fourth notch. Some days, when manual labor was required of me, I'd slipped it up to the fifth notch, making my jeans or pants snug enough to avoid any gangsta-styled baggy sagging.
Then just the other day it happened: I felt like I needed to hit the fifth notch.
I reached down to adjust my belt, and lo and behold, I already was on the fifth notch.
I tried hitting six but that was far too tight.
Dumbfounded because I had made no real attempt to lose weight only changing my diet by reducing dairy for it caused too much havoc on my sinuses, I decided to step on the scale in the bathroom.
158.
Damn. Haven't seen myself under 160 in quite some time. I hope to seize this moment to jump into some spring time exercise routine (of minimal effort) by riding my bike and doing a few simple sets of push-ups and sit-ups.
Although, I can say I've never felt the slightest bit concerned about my girth and I have no desire to get back to my lean 135 pound college days frame.
But I would like to stay under 160.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Checks & Balances
So my mom calls last night.
Her purpose is to razz me about my signature.
Seems mom was balancing her checkbook and came across a check she sent me for my birthday back in February.
"What kind of signature is that?" she cackled into the phone.
"What are you talking about?" I asked
"The way you endorsed the check I sent you" she said.
This is followed by a debate on generations and how sloppy handwriting has gotten over the years. In typical Catholic guilt fashion, she tossed in: "I thought I taught you better."
Like some how my shitty handwriting is a reflection on my mother.
She quickly segued into how I should take Spencer to church.
"When he's old enough to sit through mass, I will take him," I said.
"He can't even sit still or be quiet in a movie theater," I said.
"You've taken him to the movies?" she says all surprised like that was a bad thing.
"How many times have you taken him to the movies?" she asked.
"Once," I said. "And it was a bad idea, he wouldn't shut up or sit still."
She confesses that my sister has taken her kids, triplets who are one year older than Spencer,
to a movie theater once.
"But you could go show him what a church is," she said.
"Mom, he knows what a church is," I said.
"Well go when there's no mass and show him around. Or," she paused, "take him to a synagoge."
Adding that last part in an effort to not seem too insensitive to the fact that I'm married to a Jewish girl.
"But I don't know when they are open," she added.
Fuckin' mom.
Gotta love her old school sensibilities.
Her purpose is to razz me about my signature.
Seems mom was balancing her checkbook and came across a check she sent me for my birthday back in February.
"What kind of signature is that?" she cackled into the phone.
"What are you talking about?" I asked
"The way you endorsed the check I sent you" she said.
This is followed by a debate on generations and how sloppy handwriting has gotten over the years. In typical Catholic guilt fashion, she tossed in: "I thought I taught you better."
Like some how my shitty handwriting is a reflection on my mother.
She quickly segued into how I should take Spencer to church.
"When he's old enough to sit through mass, I will take him," I said.
"He can't even sit still or be quiet in a movie theater," I said.
"You've taken him to the movies?" she says all surprised like that was a bad thing.
"How many times have you taken him to the movies?" she asked.
"Once," I said. "And it was a bad idea, he wouldn't shut up or sit still."
She confesses that my sister has taken her kids, triplets who are one year older than Spencer,
to a movie theater once.
"But you could go show him what a church is," she said.
"Mom, he knows what a church is," I said.
"Well go when there's no mass and show him around. Or," she paused, "take him to a synagoge."
Adding that last part in an effort to not seem too insensitive to the fact that I'm married to a Jewish girl.
"But I don't know when they are open," she added.
Fuckin' mom.
Gotta love her old school sensibilities.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Chronic Case of Hopelessness
I spelled zyrtec wrong in the previous post.
Ironically, no links are atributed to love or music.
Help
Ironically, no links are atributed to love or music.
Help
Hackers?
I was going to blog on endlessly about my soon-to-be-5 son Spencer's
first soccer game this weekend.
He had one goal and one assist and lead his team to victory.
But as I was browsing over recent posts I started to notice
links that I didn't put there.
Watch.
I will type in a few words and we'll see which ones get the special
"hey I'm underlined and a link!" treatment.
Car. Home. Zrytec. Heart. Penis. Drugs. Music. Love. Rock 'n' roll.
Let's see what happens folks.
first soccer game this weekend.
He had one goal and one assist and lead his team to victory.
But as I was browsing over recent posts I started to notice
links that I didn't put there.
Watch.
I will type in a few words and we'll see which ones get the special
"hey I'm underlined and a link!" treatment.
Car. Home. Zrytec. Heart. Penis. Drugs. Music. Love. Rock 'n' roll.
Let's see what happens folks.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Pee Wee's Playhouse
I turned my kids on Pee Wee's Playhouse yesterday.
I was on my way back from a play date that Spencer had with his friend Jack. Elizabeth, Jack's mom, had decided to quit drinking during the week and requested that I take the beer in the fridge.
There were four beers.
I drank them instead of taking them.
So with a very mild buzz, I stopped by the video store with the kids on the way back home. Spencer rented some animated movie about a dog in the Great White North, Cole rented a Wiggles DVD because that kid loves the friggin' Wiggles. I spotted a Pee Wee's Playhouse DVD.
I picked it up and said, "I'm going to turn you guys on to something really cool."
It's just barely after 8 am the following day, and both boys are sitting on the floor in front of the TV watching Pee Wee Playhouse.
Thank you Pee Wee.
Oh and Penny rules!
I was on my way back from a play date that Spencer had with his friend Jack. Elizabeth, Jack's mom, had decided to quit drinking during the week and requested that I take the beer in the fridge.
There were four beers.
I drank them instead of taking them.
So with a very mild buzz, I stopped by the video store with the kids on the way back home. Spencer rented some animated movie about a dog in the Great White North, Cole rented a Wiggles DVD because that kid loves the friggin' Wiggles. I spotted a Pee Wee's Playhouse DVD.
I picked it up and said, "I'm going to turn you guys on to something really cool."
It's just barely after 8 am the following day, and both boys are sitting on the floor in front of the TV watching Pee Wee Playhouse.
Thank you Pee Wee.
Oh and Penny rules!
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