Okay, so I got the lecture again today.
From my wife.
The "you are so fucked up I can't trust you" lecture.
It was almost comical. Comical in the sense of context: Saturday I'm set to play the first show with my new band - first band in 20 years I might add - and my wife thinks it's going to turn into a drunken intervention of the collgiate kind. I think her exact words were: "you will be puking in the alley way behind the club."
I heard Homer Simpson in my head... "It's funny cuz it's true!"
I mean you can't teach an old dog new tricks. I have no agenda set out to get totally fucked up that night but then again there are few nights I've set out to do that yet most nights it can happen. So I'm not aggrevivated by such a comment as smirking delusional on her part - it is what it is.
Egged on even more by the prospect of going to a rugby reunion at my old college the following weekend. "You'll be drunk then too!" Fuck, I'm drunk now! Shut up. And what's so wrong about living a little. "Your pushing 40, have kids, you can't be passing out in the gutter."
But I like the gutter. Me and the gutter are old friends. And sometimes you like to get in touch with your old friends. I guess that's what the lecture was about. Old friends. Gutters. Vomit. Conspiracies. Booze. Brass rings and broken mopeds.
I fucking hate lectures.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Monday, April 11, 2005
Drama City
Not only is Drama City the name of the new George Pelecanos book, but it also sums up my weekend.
Drama started on Friday when I was the victim of a shift change: I was scheduled to work a 200 person served dinner. But when I got to the site, it had turned out that I had been switched to another party - still a served dinner - but only for 70 guests. I could live with that.
What I couldn't live with was getting caught in a downpour while trying to unload food from the van into the building. Working in wet clothes is no fun, I can tell you that. Top that off with having to work with a recently divorced woman so bitter that I believe at times she thought I was her ex-husband by the way she was talking to me. She also had a hard time counting - several times throughout the night I asked her how many plates of needed to run to her from the kitchen she gave me the wrong number.
Next day I worked a party in Raleigh. It iwas a fund raiser for an all-girl private school called Saint Mary's. I got put on bar with this African American guy named Kenny who gave me funniest, dirtiest running commentary throughout the night. "Ooh G, look at that girl. Wo, I'd tear that shit up!" he said standing like the pimp he thinks he is. He then preceeded to rate and grade every female that walked by us be it a co-worker or guest of the party. "Look at that old lady wearing fishnet stockings. Holy smokes. She must be 60. What's a 60-year-old lady doing wearing fishnet stockings?" he finished with a question. "But she looked good though."
He confessed toward the end of the shift that he hasn't eating pussy in over a year and a half but that he's starting to get the hankering for a taste of it. I told him years ago, while working as a courier in DC, that a co-worker told me that "black guys don't eat pussy." Indeed it was a black man that told me so. "It's true Greg," he said. "We don't. But I'll take getting my dick sucked all night long! Sure enough," he said. "But sometimes don't you have to give to receive?" I asked.
"Sheeeet," he said. "Not Kenny."
The talk of pussy reminded me of a friend of mine named Doug, who as an undergrad at the University Of Maryland, had earned himself the nickname Muff Man because he loved to eat him some pussy. I shudder to think at wear his mouth has been. I told this this story to Kenny to which he replied, "Yeah, I do hear that the white man loves himself some pussy."
The shift goes from bad to worse when the hour and a half cocktail reception goes past two hours as the hostess bellowed from a sqeaky mic, "Folks, Pl-ease sit down!" Kitchen crew panics as it throws off the cooking of 350 filet mignons. Tragedy strikes again when it is discovered that the diagram that has everybodies designated sections on it has been taped to the wall upside down.
So I was really in section 9, not 6. Confusion ensued. Our VIP party turned into and All You Can Eat at Red Lobster scene with chaos as to who was serving which table. Could it get worse? Yes. Halfway through dessert the hostess anounces that the bar has opened back up. Kenny and I look at each other. "Oh shit!" he said before scrambling for some bags of ice to replenish the ice bowl. Back at the bar I calm the nerves with a double Kettel One and tonic. By the night's end, I would be borderline drunk.
Next day. Sunday. The family is about to head off the the store when a scream came from the passenger side of our parked car. As I walk around I saw Cole's hand closed in the door. I don't know how to react: I'm scare at the site of his hand; I want to open a can of whoop ass on Spencer. Cole turned out to be okay but I still lsot my shit on Spencer.
Drama started on Friday when I was the victim of a shift change: I was scheduled to work a 200 person served dinner. But when I got to the site, it had turned out that I had been switched to another party - still a served dinner - but only for 70 guests. I could live with that.
What I couldn't live with was getting caught in a downpour while trying to unload food from the van into the building. Working in wet clothes is no fun, I can tell you that. Top that off with having to work with a recently divorced woman so bitter that I believe at times she thought I was her ex-husband by the way she was talking to me. She also had a hard time counting - several times throughout the night I asked her how many plates of needed to run to her from the kitchen she gave me the wrong number.
Next day I worked a party in Raleigh. It iwas a fund raiser for an all-girl private school called Saint Mary's. I got put on bar with this African American guy named Kenny who gave me funniest, dirtiest running commentary throughout the night. "Ooh G, look at that girl. Wo, I'd tear that shit up!" he said standing like the pimp he thinks he is. He then preceeded to rate and grade every female that walked by us be it a co-worker or guest of the party. "Look at that old lady wearing fishnet stockings. Holy smokes. She must be 60. What's a 60-year-old lady doing wearing fishnet stockings?" he finished with a question. "But she looked good though."
He confessed toward the end of the shift that he hasn't eating pussy in over a year and a half but that he's starting to get the hankering for a taste of it. I told him years ago, while working as a courier in DC, that a co-worker told me that "black guys don't eat pussy." Indeed it was a black man that told me so. "It's true Greg," he said. "We don't. But I'll take getting my dick sucked all night long! Sure enough," he said. "But sometimes don't you have to give to receive?" I asked.
"Sheeeet," he said. "Not Kenny."
The talk of pussy reminded me of a friend of mine named Doug, who as an undergrad at the University Of Maryland, had earned himself the nickname Muff Man because he loved to eat him some pussy. I shudder to think at wear his mouth has been. I told this this story to Kenny to which he replied, "Yeah, I do hear that the white man loves himself some pussy."
The shift goes from bad to worse when the hour and a half cocktail reception goes past two hours as the hostess bellowed from a sqeaky mic, "Folks, Pl-ease sit down!" Kitchen crew panics as it throws off the cooking of 350 filet mignons. Tragedy strikes again when it is discovered that the diagram that has everybodies designated sections on it has been taped to the wall upside down.
So I was really in section 9, not 6. Confusion ensued. Our VIP party turned into and All You Can Eat at Red Lobster scene with chaos as to who was serving which table. Could it get worse? Yes. Halfway through dessert the hostess anounces that the bar has opened back up. Kenny and I look at each other. "Oh shit!" he said before scrambling for some bags of ice to replenish the ice bowl. Back at the bar I calm the nerves with a double Kettel One and tonic. By the night's end, I would be borderline drunk.
Next day. Sunday. The family is about to head off the the store when a scream came from the passenger side of our parked car. As I walk around I saw Cole's hand closed in the door. I don't know how to react: I'm scare at the site of his hand; I want to open a can of whoop ass on Spencer. Cole turned out to be okay but I still lsot my shit on Spencer.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Old King Cole Was A Jolly Old Soul
While my son Cole is generally a happy kid like the fairy tale that he wasn't named after, he is turning out to be quite the mischievous lad.
I've caught him wrapping the living room in toilet paper and I've stopped him from pulling wine bottles out of the wine rack. Just two days ago, I went into the kitchen to make lunch for us and when I was finished preparing it and came back to get him, I noticed the sliding door to the deck in our back yard was open. I dashed outside, yelled his name, and saw him standing in the middle of my neighbor's back yard sticking his finger in what appeared to be a mud puddle.
You can't turn your head for a second with this boy.
No sir.
As a matter of fact, I'm going to check and see if he's still napping.
Just because the house is quiet doesn't mean he's not trying to bring on the ruckus.
I've caught him wrapping the living room in toilet paper and I've stopped him from pulling wine bottles out of the wine rack. Just two days ago, I went into the kitchen to make lunch for us and when I was finished preparing it and came back to get him, I noticed the sliding door to the deck in our back yard was open. I dashed outside, yelled his name, and saw him standing in the middle of my neighbor's back yard sticking his finger in what appeared to be a mud puddle.
You can't turn your head for a second with this boy.
No sir.
As a matter of fact, I'm going to check and see if he's still napping.
Just because the house is quiet doesn't mean he's not trying to bring on the ruckus.
We Are The Chestpains
It's downright odd that my band has its first gig almost a year to the day of my sudafed O.D., which happened April 19 of last year.
Ironic in that it was because of that health scare that I got off my ass and decided to start a punk rock band; ironic in that it's how the band got our name.
So the band has buckled down.
We've scheduled two extra practices into the next two weeks - Sunday and Wednesdays respectively - to tighten up our 10-songs-in-25 minutes set. Two of them are covers: "Beverly Hills" off of the Circle Jerks' seminal Group Sex album and "Hall Of Fame" from Joyride-era Goverment Issue. Again you can find irony: we only added the covers as a way to pad our set, yet each song barely clocks in at 60 seconds.
Ironic in that it was because of that health scare that I got off my ass and decided to start a punk rock band; ironic in that it's how the band got our name.
So the band has buckled down.
We've scheduled two extra practices into the next two weeks - Sunday and Wednesdays respectively - to tighten up our 10-songs-in-25 minutes set. Two of them are covers: "Beverly Hills" off of the Circle Jerks' seminal Group Sex album and "Hall Of Fame" from Joyride-era Goverment Issue. Again you can find irony: we only added the covers as a way to pad our set, yet each song barely clocks in at 60 seconds.
It's Snowing Out
But the flakes are not frozen water, rather a fine yellow mist of pine pollen.
This is the time of year I dread: sinus hell.
Despite the fact that the weather is beautiful - mid-70s with a gentle breeze - you cannot open the windows to your house or car because it will be covered in a fine yellow film of pine pollen.
When the wind blows, little mini tornados - dust devils - whirl about in all their yellow glory and I have to be on my best behavior or else I will be crushed by it all; the whirling devils a constant reminder of the evil that lurks outside my closed windows.
I've been vigilant in taking my Zyrtec and even got a prescription to Flonase filled just as an extra percaution to ward off the rhinitis and sinusitis that I'm prone to get this time of year. My head is still mad congested - and I can hear my sinuses whistle and squeak when I blow my nose - but at least I can function and don't feel like total horseshit.
It's important that I keep my wits about it all right now as:
a.) it's the busiest time of the year for the catering world of which is my sole means of income
b.) my band - the Chestpains (www.thechestpains.com) - have our debut gig April 23 at Kings in Raleigh (www.kingsbarcade.com)
This is the time of year I dread: sinus hell.
Despite the fact that the weather is beautiful - mid-70s with a gentle breeze - you cannot open the windows to your house or car because it will be covered in a fine yellow film of pine pollen.
When the wind blows, little mini tornados - dust devils - whirl about in all their yellow glory and I have to be on my best behavior or else I will be crushed by it all; the whirling devils a constant reminder of the evil that lurks outside my closed windows.
I've been vigilant in taking my Zyrtec and even got a prescription to Flonase filled just as an extra percaution to ward off the rhinitis and sinusitis that I'm prone to get this time of year. My head is still mad congested - and I can hear my sinuses whistle and squeak when I blow my nose - but at least I can function and don't feel like total horseshit.
It's important that I keep my wits about it all right now as:
a.) it's the busiest time of the year for the catering world of which is my sole means of income
b.) my band - the Chestpains (www.thechestpains.com) - have our debut gig April 23 at Kings in Raleigh (www.kingsbarcade.com)
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
The Pope Died
And being the good Catholic that I am, I figured I should weigh in on the matter.
As much as I have abandoned catholicism and its strict guidelines over the years, the impact of 12 years of Catholic school made a strong imprint.
This blog's name afterall is based on St. Jude who is seen as the patron saint of hopeless cases and lost causes. We catholics have a patron saint for everything, trust me.
St. Jude was also the name of the parish I belonged to growing up and consquently, the name of the elementary school I went to from first to eighth grade.
Our school field trips were to places like cathedrals and shrines. There were May Processions and Friday masses; First Communion and Confirmation; and lots of confessioning.
I still dearly moved by religious iconography and art.
I mean what is the first thing you see when you walk into a catholic church?
Jesus nailed to the cross.
As much as I have abandoned catholicism and its strict guidelines over the years, the impact of 12 years of Catholic school made a strong imprint.
This blog's name afterall is based on St. Jude who is seen as the patron saint of hopeless cases and lost causes. We catholics have a patron saint for everything, trust me.
St. Jude was also the name of the parish I belonged to growing up and consquently, the name of the elementary school I went to from first to eighth grade.
Our school field trips were to places like cathedrals and shrines. There were May Processions and Friday masses; First Communion and Confirmation; and lots of confessioning.
I still dearly moved by religious iconography and art.
I mean what is the first thing you see when you walk into a catholic church?
Jesus nailed to the cross.
Like Mardi Gras
So UNC won the NCAA basketball championship last night.
And in predictable fashion, drunken revelry ensued: people flocked to the town's main drag Franklin Street, started bonfires, hung from street signs and trees and stumbled around like freaks on Fat Tuesday in New Orleans.
There are some hungover people today in Chapel Hill.
One of them was a mother of four. Her oldest daughter plays on my son Spencer's soccer team. Her husband is an academic counselor for student athletes at UNC.
Shortly after arrived for the 4 pm practice, she mumbles to me that she has a raging headache.
"I celebrated a little too hard last night," she said.
It's a little after 7 pm and I'm on my second vodka tonic.
No hangovers here my friend.
And in predictable fashion, drunken revelry ensued: people flocked to the town's main drag Franklin Street, started bonfires, hung from street signs and trees and stumbled around like freaks on Fat Tuesday in New Orleans.
There are some hungover people today in Chapel Hill.
One of them was a mother of four. Her oldest daughter plays on my son Spencer's soccer team. Her husband is an academic counselor for student athletes at UNC.
Shortly after arrived for the 4 pm practice, she mumbles to me that she has a raging headache.
"I celebrated a little too hard last night," she said.
It's a little after 7 pm and I'm on my second vodka tonic.
No hangovers here my friend.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Dicks
And for those of you still wondering about the status of my cock, well its alive and well.
I dropped off an ejaculation sample at the urology clinic today and got a call back later that I officially have no swimmers... my sperm has been rendered unless.
Now for those of you paying any attention, you realize that I had my vasectomy procedure way back in January.
It's true, it has taken me that long to get up the nerve to cum into a sample specimen cup.
I mean I don't have a problem impregnating the sewer/septic systems of the world but there's something about having to put it in a cup and take it somewhere that kept me from doing it.
My interaction went something like this:
"Honey, what do you say we knock out a sample for the doctor today?"
"Um, well okay," she says.
"What do you have in mind?"
I unbuckle my pants and dropped my drawers to reveal a hard cock.
"I'm thinking it'd be great if you blew me"
"It better not take long," she says.
"Does it ever?" I say.
Then I call the urologist and ask if the doctor's in (this is what I've been instructed to do knowing full well my doctor isn't going to test my semen for sperm).
The doctor's in alright.
"Can I drop off a sperm sample?" I say.
The old lady receptionist does her best Mrs. Doubtfire impersonation: "Ohh well um, hee ho, why I'm yes."
Five minutes later I'm at the doctor's office with my sample in a brown lunch bag as to not scare anybody walking in with a specimen cup loaded up with cum. Mrs. Doubtfire asks me a few questions.
"Is this from this morning?"
I turn around and look at the clock.
"Um, about ten minutes ago," I say.
"Uh, ooh, ahem, Okay and your date of birth is?" asks Mrs. Doubtfire and I could swear she was blushing.
"Two sixteen sixty eight,"I say.
"And when was your procedure?" she asks.
The phone rings.
"Excuse me," she says as she picks up the phone.
"Durham Urology. How can I help you?"
I can't help but wonder what the person who handles these specimens thinks:
"Um, that's all he could muster up? Poor fellow" or "God damn that guy delivered a monster load." And then I have this weird, creepy sexual deviant thought that the lady who works in the lab is one of those buttakke-types who likes to drink cum. Of course! That's why she works in the lab testing men's ejacualte for traces of sperm.
I'm only momentarily freaked out by this.
And it's more so that I thought about it then it actually happening.
I dropped off an ejaculation sample at the urology clinic today and got a call back later that I officially have no swimmers... my sperm has been rendered unless.
Now for those of you paying any attention, you realize that I had my vasectomy procedure way back in January.
It's true, it has taken me that long to get up the nerve to cum into a sample specimen cup.
I mean I don't have a problem impregnating the sewer/septic systems of the world but there's something about having to put it in a cup and take it somewhere that kept me from doing it.
My interaction went something like this:
"Honey, what do you say we knock out a sample for the doctor today?"
"Um, well okay," she says.
"What do you have in mind?"
I unbuckle my pants and dropped my drawers to reveal a hard cock.
"I'm thinking it'd be great if you blew me"
"It better not take long," she says.
"Does it ever?" I say.
Then I call the urologist and ask if the doctor's in (this is what I've been instructed to do knowing full well my doctor isn't going to test my semen for sperm).
The doctor's in alright.
"Can I drop off a sperm sample?" I say.
The old lady receptionist does her best Mrs. Doubtfire impersonation: "Ohh well um, hee ho, why I'm yes."
Five minutes later I'm at the doctor's office with my sample in a brown lunch bag as to not scare anybody walking in with a specimen cup loaded up with cum. Mrs. Doubtfire asks me a few questions.
"Is this from this morning?"
I turn around and look at the clock.
"Um, about ten minutes ago," I say.
"Uh, ooh, ahem, Okay and your date of birth is?" asks Mrs. Doubtfire and I could swear she was blushing.
"Two sixteen sixty eight,"I say.
"And when was your procedure?" she asks.
The phone rings.
"Excuse me," she says as she picks up the phone.
"Durham Urology. How can I help you?"
I can't help but wonder what the person who handles these specimens thinks:
"Um, that's all he could muster up? Poor fellow" or "God damn that guy delivered a monster load." And then I have this weird, creepy sexual deviant thought that the lady who works in the lab is one of those buttakke-types who likes to drink cum. Of course! That's why she works in the lab testing men's ejacualte for traces of sperm.
I'm only momentarily freaked out by this.
And it's more so that I thought about it then it actually happening.
Christ My Spelling Is Bad
I'm so glad my mother doesn't read this blog.
Lord onlyknows how much she'd be on my ass seeing all those mispelled words in the last few posts. I mean given the fucking fit she threw about the way I endorsed my checks and all.
The next vodka tonic is for you mom.
Gulp.
Lord onlyknows how much she'd be on my ass seeing all those mispelled words in the last few posts. I mean given the fucking fit she threw about the way I endorsed my checks and all.
The next vodka tonic is for you mom.
Gulp.
They're Playing Basketball
Yep.
That's right folks. There's a basketball game on tonight.
And if you live in my neck of the woods, this means serious business.
Bars are apacked, streets are closed, blue spray paint has been unavailbale for sale for a couple of days and hotels are packed to the brim with the faithful.
ACC basketball in the Southeast is like a religion; like fucking Pentecostal snakehandlers, worked up into a fevered pitched for their team.
Once I went to the grocery store in mid-February on a Saturday, late afternoon, and it ws like a ghost town. "It sure is slow in here for a Saturday afternoon," I said to the cashier.
"Game's on," she said.
That's right folks. There's a basketball game on tonight.
And if you live in my neck of the woods, this means serious business.
Bars are apacked, streets are closed, blue spray paint has been unavailbale for sale for a couple of days and hotels are packed to the brim with the faithful.
ACC basketball in the Southeast is like a religion; like fucking Pentecostal snakehandlers, worked up into a fevered pitched for their team.
Once I went to the grocery store in mid-February on a Saturday, late afternoon, and it ws like a ghost town. "It sure is slow in here for a Saturday afternoon," I said to the cashier.
"Game's on," she said.
Tree House Boot Camp
Oh my.
The wifey took off last week for spring break, whihc just also happened to correspond with my son Spencer's 5th birthday.
And yeah, stupid us we made some promises: to take him to the beach and to build him a tree house.
The beacj part was easy. My wife works for Holiday Inn so we scored an Employee rate at the Holiday Inn in Wrightsville Beach, NC. A little over two hours is the drive and there's pretty much nothing between Raleigh and the beach. It can get boring. But the boys slept most of the way, that is until the wife got pulled over for speeding by an unmarked police car.
I'd tell you more but all you locals can read about it in the next issue of Raleigh's Hatchet magazine (www.raleighhatchet.com) where it will be the bulk of my Confessions Of A Punk Rock Dad column.
Anyway, to brief you on the subject, the wife and I spent the better part of four days - from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. - contructing a tree house for the kids in our backyard. By Day Two, my body was so sore I thought I was coming down with the flu. By Day 4, I couldn't close my fingers into a fist from excessive use of hammer and drill.
Hey, but will built the fucking thing in a week.
And it's strong, study and has a god damn tin roof to boot.
The wifey took off last week for spring break, whihc just also happened to correspond with my son Spencer's 5th birthday.
And yeah, stupid us we made some promises: to take him to the beach and to build him a tree house.
The beacj part was easy. My wife works for Holiday Inn so we scored an Employee rate at the Holiday Inn in Wrightsville Beach, NC. A little over two hours is the drive and there's pretty much nothing between Raleigh and the beach. It can get boring. But the boys slept most of the way, that is until the wife got pulled over for speeding by an unmarked police car.
I'd tell you more but all you locals can read about it in the next issue of Raleigh's Hatchet magazine (www.raleighhatchet.com) where it will be the bulk of my Confessions Of A Punk Rock Dad column.
Anyway, to brief you on the subject, the wife and I spent the better part of four days - from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. - contructing a tree house for the kids in our backyard. By Day Two, my body was so sore I thought I was coming down with the flu. By Day 4, I couldn't close my fingers into a fist from excessive use of hammer and drill.
Hey, but will built the fucking thing in a week.
And it's strong, study and has a god damn tin roof to boot.
Too Much Time On Their Hands
I've officially come to the conclusion that most bloggers have entirely too much time on their hands.
Really.
Pot calling the kettle black?
Maybe so, but I haven't posted anything in two weeks and suddenly my password has changed, the Pope has died and my son had a birthday.
People think that being a stay-at-home-dad, I have all the time in the world on my hands.
I should be posting a good half dozen blogs a day. To some extent, I agree. I should be posting more.
So prepare yourself for the dazzling display of catch up I'm going to do this evening....
Really.
Pot calling the kettle black?
Maybe so, but I haven't posted anything in two weeks and suddenly my password has changed, the Pope has died and my son had a birthday.
People think that being a stay-at-home-dad, I have all the time in the world on my hands.
I should be posting a good half dozen blogs a day. To some extent, I agree. I should be posting more.
So prepare yourself for the dazzling display of catch up I'm going to do this evening....
Friday, March 18, 2005
Mike Daily Starring As The Archivalist
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.
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.
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!
Monday, February 21, 2005
Hunter S. Thompson, 1937-2005, R.I.P.
Fuck.
It goes something like this:
"You probably already know this, but Hunter Thompson died. Killed himself."
I did not know this when the news came via a phone call.
A few minutes later, my kids are still asleep in the back of the car on the way to the grocery store.
The sky is overcast; it is balmy out. A perfect day for the topic of death.
My eyes well up.
"Fuck me," I think.
"Why am I about to weep over the death of a man I've never met?"
I'll tell you why: because after reading Hunter Thompson, he changed the course of my life.
Redirection.
It'd be silly for me to try and put into words what this man meant to me or how his idealogies helped me chart a path through my own twisted life.
I will say this: If you have not read RUM DIARY or FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS, go read them.
Now fuck off.
I've got some beer to drink you god damn bastards.
It goes something like this:
"You probably already know this, but Hunter Thompson died. Killed himself."
I did not know this when the news came via a phone call.
A few minutes later, my kids are still asleep in the back of the car on the way to the grocery store.
The sky is overcast; it is balmy out. A perfect day for the topic of death.
My eyes well up.
"Fuck me," I think.
"Why am I about to weep over the death of a man I've never met?"
I'll tell you why: because after reading Hunter Thompson, he changed the course of my life.
Redirection.
It'd be silly for me to try and put into words what this man meant to me or how his idealogies helped me chart a path through my own twisted life.
I will say this: If you have not read RUM DIARY or FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS, go read them.
Now fuck off.
I've got some beer to drink you god damn bastards.
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