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...
Sunday, March 13, 2005
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.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Smell Like Teen Spirit?
Or does it smell like anarchy?
Went to a house party last night in Carrboro - held at the Co-Op House.
Zegota, 1905 and Del Cielo played.
The room was filled with patches and studs, torn t-shirts and tattooes; alternative living at its best I guess. It's always worth a good chuckle to see the conforming non-conformists gather.
Del Cielo was an all-girl three-piece that reminded me of Sleater Kinney because they were all fuzzed out and shrillin'.
I thought 1905 were awesome. Maybe it was the fact that their singer is this tiny girl with one of the loudest, angriest howls. They did the herky jerky punk smattered with breakdowns thing. Different enough to not sound like anybody else (although there was a band name running through my head last night while I watched them but I've since forgotten).
Zegota played last. They rocked the anarcho-crust punk vibe while tossing in some emo (nee screamo). I was there to see them because I work with their singer. Never heard them although I wasn't surprised by their sound because I know Moe their singer fairly well. We always get into discussions on punk rock and music and arts and culture during down time at gigs we cater. It's always good to see the younger generation of punks keeping the flame alive.
God bless house party shows, I tell you. I feel that half of the reason I enjoyed any of these bands was the setting. I don't think it would have translated as well if they were on stage and in a club.
I need to see more house party shows.
I do.
Went to a house party last night in Carrboro - held at the Co-Op House.
Zegota, 1905 and Del Cielo played.
The room was filled with patches and studs, torn t-shirts and tattooes; alternative living at its best I guess. It's always worth a good chuckle to see the conforming non-conformists gather.
Del Cielo was an all-girl three-piece that reminded me of Sleater Kinney because they were all fuzzed out and shrillin'.
I thought 1905 were awesome. Maybe it was the fact that their singer is this tiny girl with one of the loudest, angriest howls. They did the herky jerky punk smattered with breakdowns thing. Different enough to not sound like anybody else (although there was a band name running through my head last night while I watched them but I've since forgotten).
Zegota played last. They rocked the anarcho-crust punk vibe while tossing in some emo (nee screamo). I was there to see them because I work with their singer. Never heard them although I wasn't surprised by their sound because I know Moe their singer fairly well. We always get into discussions on punk rock and music and arts and culture during down time at gigs we cater. It's always good to see the younger generation of punks keeping the flame alive.
God bless house party shows, I tell you. I feel that half of the reason I enjoyed any of these bands was the setting. I don't think it would have translated as well if they were on stage and in a club.
I need to see more house party shows.
I do.
Saturday, 2:45 PM
Yesterday was Saturday.
Yesterday.
Saturday.
2:45 pm.
I'm listening to the Mick O'Grady Trio CD that Mike Daily sent me.
Mike Daily is Mick O'Grady.
Mick O'Grady is the protagonist in Mike's forthcoming novel AS IS.
The music is sparse, enough to fill a room but not enough to overpower the words, the verse.
So the Mick O'Grady Trio is the performance vehicle for Daily; reading passages from his novel backed by soundscapes.
On the package that came in the mail, there is a quote:
"If you like listening to the sound of your own voice, does that mean you're an audio-narcissist?"
Track 4 is on. "Los Angeles." Mick is talking about selling his most prized possessions for money. "I keep sellin' books and tradin' in CDs to buy groceries. Henry Miller for macaroni and cheese. Dostoevsky and selected Bukowski for lunch meat. My Sonic Youth discography for meatless patties. I'm not a vegetarian."
At 2:45 pm, Saturday, the phone rings.
It is Mike Daily.
He has memorized passages from his novel in order to perform them.
If listening to the sound of your own voice makes you an audio-narcissist, then what does memorizing the text of your own novel make you?
Wrapped that around your head.
Yesterday.
Saturday.
2:45 pm.
I'm listening to the Mick O'Grady Trio CD that Mike Daily sent me.
Mike Daily is Mick O'Grady.
Mick O'Grady is the protagonist in Mike's forthcoming novel AS IS.
The music is sparse, enough to fill a room but not enough to overpower the words, the verse.
So the Mick O'Grady Trio is the performance vehicle for Daily; reading passages from his novel backed by soundscapes.
On the package that came in the mail, there is a quote:
"If you like listening to the sound of your own voice, does that mean you're an audio-narcissist?"
Track 4 is on. "Los Angeles." Mick is talking about selling his most prized possessions for money. "I keep sellin' books and tradin' in CDs to buy groceries. Henry Miller for macaroni and cheese. Dostoevsky and selected Bukowski for lunch meat. My Sonic Youth discography for meatless patties. I'm not a vegetarian."
At 2:45 pm, Saturday, the phone rings.
It is Mike Daily.
He has memorized passages from his novel in order to perform them.
If listening to the sound of your own voice makes you an audio-narcissist, then what does memorizing the text of your own novel make you?
Wrapped that around your head.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Would You Hit A Woman?
I was channeling surfing recently when I came across an old interview (I believe it was old) of prize fighter George Foreman and the interviewer asked him the question: "Would you hit a woman?"
Typical of knee-jerk journalism to ask such a question. They we're trying to bait him into answering it like he was some sort of animal a la Mike Tyson.
Foreman replied: "I once said I would fight man, woman or child."
Of course the man made a living as a professional boxer and in context it makes perfect sense: He felt so confident about his skills that he would get in the ring with anyone.
That I believe is what he was trying to say.
The interviewer, a woman, asked again: "Would you hit a woman?"
"Yes," said Foreman, "I would hit a woman."
Context.
Remember that word.
Today, I almost hit a woman.
I was driving Spencer to school.
Pulled out of the neighborhood onto the main road which leads to his school.
Just as I pulled out a tow truck towing a broken-down recycling truck lurched into the road from the next intersection. I slowed to possibly let him go but with a tattered pickup riding my ass, I decided to keep on going.
I could see the driver of the pickup cursing at me, arms waving, finger pointing, obviously upset that I was suddenly in the way of wherever they were going.
As I made my way up the hill, I pointed to the speed limit sign - that read 35 mph - knowing the driver of the truck was looking at me and continued on down the road glancing at my speedometer and seeing that I was at 40 mph.
So I slowed to 35 mph. You could see the anger on the pickup driver's face.
I turned into the school parking lot.
I saw the pickup truck pass the left turn where it was planning on going and zoom down to the next entrance to the school.
"Aw shit," I thought.
I park the car, walk around to the passenger side where Spencer is and see the pickup truck squeal to a stop in the space next to me.
"What the fuck are you doing?" yells the driver at me.
"Do you have a problem?" I calmly say.
"You pulled out in front of me!" yells the driver. An older woman, short hair, dressed like a man, veins popping on neck.
I size her up as I walk to the driver's side door.
"The speed limit is 35 mph," I say.
"You cut me off!" screams the woman.
"The speed limit is 35 mph," I say again. My hands are on the driver's side door by now; my face almost inside the vehicle.
She makes a move like she is going got unbuckle her seat belt and get out of the car. Moms are pulling in beside us to drop off their kids.
"I suggest you stay in the car," I say. My heart is racing now.
'Fuck you!" she says. Then peels out in the gravel lot and speeds off.
I would have hit that woman had she gotten out of the car and tried to attack me.
Context.
Perspective.
Typical of knee-jerk journalism to ask such a question. They we're trying to bait him into answering it like he was some sort of animal a la Mike Tyson.
Foreman replied: "I once said I would fight man, woman or child."
Of course the man made a living as a professional boxer and in context it makes perfect sense: He felt so confident about his skills that he would get in the ring with anyone.
That I believe is what he was trying to say.
The interviewer, a woman, asked again: "Would you hit a woman?"
"Yes," said Foreman, "I would hit a woman."
Context.
Remember that word.
Today, I almost hit a woman.
I was driving Spencer to school.
Pulled out of the neighborhood onto the main road which leads to his school.
Just as I pulled out a tow truck towing a broken-down recycling truck lurched into the road from the next intersection. I slowed to possibly let him go but with a tattered pickup riding my ass, I decided to keep on going.
I could see the driver of the pickup cursing at me, arms waving, finger pointing, obviously upset that I was suddenly in the way of wherever they were going.
As I made my way up the hill, I pointed to the speed limit sign - that read 35 mph - knowing the driver of the truck was looking at me and continued on down the road glancing at my speedometer and seeing that I was at 40 mph.
So I slowed to 35 mph. You could see the anger on the pickup driver's face.
I turned into the school parking lot.
I saw the pickup truck pass the left turn where it was planning on going and zoom down to the next entrance to the school.
"Aw shit," I thought.
I park the car, walk around to the passenger side where Spencer is and see the pickup truck squeal to a stop in the space next to me.
"What the fuck are you doing?" yells the driver at me.
"Do you have a problem?" I calmly say.
"You pulled out in front of me!" yells the driver. An older woman, short hair, dressed like a man, veins popping on neck.
I size her up as I walk to the driver's side door.
"The speed limit is 35 mph," I say.
"You cut me off!" screams the woman.
"The speed limit is 35 mph," I say again. My hands are on the driver's side door by now; my face almost inside the vehicle.
She makes a move like she is going got unbuckle her seat belt and get out of the car. Moms are pulling in beside us to drop off their kids.
"I suggest you stay in the car," I say. My heart is racing now.
'Fuck you!" she says. Then peels out in the gravel lot and speeds off.
I would have hit that woman had she gotten out of the car and tried to attack me.
Context.
Perspective.
Ass Crack
So yesterday I broke the seat of my toilet when I leaned over to grab the roll of teepee giving new meaning to the term "ass crack."
Monday, February 14, 2005
Saved By Devo (Again)
My kids love Devo.
What can I say.
So little almost-2 yr.-old Cole gets to being cranky after dinner,
fights with me take his meds, spits them out all over me and basically does his best at being the Gemini that he is.
He begs for a Little People video but the video doesn't work.
He wants to be held. He feels like shit I know.
I hold him.
The sleeves and shoulders of my shirt are stained with his snot.
I'm about at my whit's end.
He asks for the Wiggles but I returned that DVD earlier today.
I put on Devo... and all is well in the house.
What can I say.
So little almost-2 yr.-old Cole gets to being cranky after dinner,
fights with me take his meds, spits them out all over me and basically does his best at being the Gemini that he is.
He begs for a Little People video but the video doesn't work.
He wants to be held. He feels like shit I know.
I hold him.
The sleeves and shoulders of my shirt are stained with his snot.
I'm about at my whit's end.
He asks for the Wiggles but I returned that DVD earlier today.
I put on Devo... and all is well in the house.
We Are The Chestpains, This Is Our Theme Song
So I take the boys to the doctor this morning after being kept awake for several days by their snotty noses, coughs and general crankiness.
Both boys are diagnosed with minor ear infections.
We discuss meds and inevitably is comes back to allergies and how to handle them. The nurse practioner is big on Albuterol to help the cough. Suddenly you find yourself giving your kid motrin for pain, albuterol for the cough, amoxicillin (that nasty Pepstol Bismol colored shit we all had as kids), and zyrtec for the allergies... it's like they are living in an old folks home I tell you.
Somehow it comes up that I have a doctor's appointment on Wednesday, my 37th birthday at that.
"Oh but that's for his heart," says my wife when the nurse makes a comment about three boys being sick on Valentine's Day.
"What?" she asks.
"It's a long story..." and without skipping a beat I launch into my whole Sudafed O.D. story.
"And you had chestpains," she says.
"Yes," I say.
Spencer interrupts, "Yeah and now dad has a band called the Chestpains!"
"A little dose of humor goes a long way." I say to the nurse, before turning around and giving a high-five to Spencer.
On the way home inthe car, he starts singing the band's theme song, "We Are The Chestpains/This Is Our Theme Song/Don't Know The Refrain?/Come On And Sing Along..."
Little Cole chimes in with the "whoa, whoas"
Both boys are diagnosed with minor ear infections.
We discuss meds and inevitably is comes back to allergies and how to handle them. The nurse practioner is big on Albuterol to help the cough. Suddenly you find yourself giving your kid motrin for pain, albuterol for the cough, amoxicillin (that nasty Pepstol Bismol colored shit we all had as kids), and zyrtec for the allergies... it's like they are living in an old folks home I tell you.
Somehow it comes up that I have a doctor's appointment on Wednesday, my 37th birthday at that.
"Oh but that's for his heart," says my wife when the nurse makes a comment about three boys being sick on Valentine's Day.
"What?" she asks.
"It's a long story..." and without skipping a beat I launch into my whole Sudafed O.D. story.
"And you had chestpains," she says.
"Yes," I say.
Spencer interrupts, "Yeah and now dad has a band called the Chestpains!"
"A little dose of humor goes a long way." I say to the nurse, before turning around and giving a high-five to Spencer.
On the way home inthe car, he starts singing the band's theme song, "We Are The Chestpains/This Is Our Theme Song/Don't Know The Refrain?/Come On And Sing Along..."
Little Cole chimes in with the "whoa, whoas"
Saint George Makes A Request
Seems avid reader St. George was the first to puts dibs in on the soft cover edition of Kem Nunn's THE DOGS OF WINTER (from Saturday February 12 post).
So George it's yours just tell me where to send it.
That is George if you want to give up that thinly disguised veil of being anonymous.
So George it's yours just tell me where to send it.
That is George if you want to give up that thinly disguised veil of being anonymous.
A Monkey Is Born
I worked a post-wedding brunch yesterday (Sunday) at a house in Durham which was full on Cribs-style (if Southern gentrified folks had their own version of Cribs.)
Had to get to the catering company shop by 6:30am.
Woke up very unrested from sleepless kids with sick desires:
"Blow my nose," "I need a drink," "wahhh aah wahh."
I make it to the shop on time but coffee and the morning constitution aren't part of the program.
Because the house is so huge (i.e. VIP customers) we've got the crack staff to handle it. 9 people are working a party for 100.
Two kitchen staffers who prep the food and work the eggs benedict stations, event planner, one lead, and 5 waits of which I am one.
We had to set up tables and chairs around the house.
Some of which involved a flight of stairs 16 steps long.
Midway through the shift one of the co-ed, young girl waits confided in me that she was about to shit herself.
I'm not sure why she told me this other than to get some smypathy. Caterers (and food service blokes for the most part) are a rare breed. Not topic is too taboo.
When the lead wait sat down for a break in the garage and tipped over an ice cooler with wheels, falling back into the bussing area and knocking over the tub of slop (i.e. the liquid of drinks not drunk) and spilling it across the garage floor, there's nary a chuckle. Just a matter-of-fact discussion by those in the room:
"It looked as if it happened in slow motion." After said discussion the collective regroups and continues about the duties of the shift. Someone muttered the adage: "what happens catering, stays in catering."
So I'm not suprised about the shit comment. Everybody probably needed to take a morning dump, myself included, but when working a house party, nobody wants to be the staffer who stinks up the bathroom.
As the shift began to wind down, I noticed the bathroom door ajar and got a whiff of stench.
A few minutes later I saw the co-ed and asked her if she felt better. She chuckled. "I feel like I just gave birth to a monkey," she said.
"That's funny, " I said.
"Because I just saw a monkey running through the house."
This is catering.
Had to get to the catering company shop by 6:30am.
Woke up very unrested from sleepless kids with sick desires:
"Blow my nose," "I need a drink," "wahhh aah wahh."
I make it to the shop on time but coffee and the morning constitution aren't part of the program.
Because the house is so huge (i.e. VIP customers) we've got the crack staff to handle it. 9 people are working a party for 100.
Two kitchen staffers who prep the food and work the eggs benedict stations, event planner, one lead, and 5 waits of which I am one.
We had to set up tables and chairs around the house.
Some of which involved a flight of stairs 16 steps long.
Midway through the shift one of the co-ed, young girl waits confided in me that she was about to shit herself.
I'm not sure why she told me this other than to get some smypathy. Caterers (and food service blokes for the most part) are a rare breed. Not topic is too taboo.
When the lead wait sat down for a break in the garage and tipped over an ice cooler with wheels, falling back into the bussing area and knocking over the tub of slop (i.e. the liquid of drinks not drunk) and spilling it across the garage floor, there's nary a chuckle. Just a matter-of-fact discussion by those in the room:
"It looked as if it happened in slow motion." After said discussion the collective regroups and continues about the duties of the shift. Someone muttered the adage: "what happens catering, stays in catering."
So I'm not suprised about the shit comment. Everybody probably needed to take a morning dump, myself included, but when working a house party, nobody wants to be the staffer who stinks up the bathroom.
As the shift began to wind down, I noticed the bathroom door ajar and got a whiff of stench.
A few minutes later I saw the co-ed and asked her if she felt better. She chuckled. "I feel like I just gave birth to a monkey," she said.
"That's funny, " I said.
"Because I just saw a monkey running through the house."
This is catering.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Thirst For Verse (Slight Return)
When I went to the library the other day, I noticed they were holding their quarterly book sale this weekend.
So after my shower and some coffee, I head off to the sale.
Run into a few book-loving freaks like myself that I know.
Say hello.
Good luck.
Happy hunting.
I'm only sort of half with it from the sleepless night and I don't have the time to do any real serious browsing.
I hit up the basics: poetry, biographies, fiction.
The poetry section is weak and blurred together with drama and classics. I don't see any City Lights Pocket Poetry Series chapbooks (easily identifiable by their size) so I head off to biographies hoping to find a good one by Nick Tosches (on Sonny Liston or Dean Martin specifically) but find no such luck. Browse the fiction. See a Jim Harrision book - Dalva - which I'm convinced I already have in hardback, this one here is soft cover.
So I pass on it.
Oftentimes, I'm so fixated on trying to land a certain score that I end up buying it twice. I've done this with records many times.
I go back to biographies one last time before I leave. Along the way I spot Kem Nunn's THE DOGS OF WINTER which I recently read and it was one of the best books I consumed in quite some time.
I pick it up because it is hardcover and vow to send/give my soft cover copy to someone in the near future.
Back I biographies, I spot one on Kenneth Rexroth - who is one of the grandaddies of San Francisco's epic Beat lit scene - and pick it up.
I had just gotten an email from a friend of mine about how I was a great American poet after he discovered a long lost stash of poems I'd sent him years ago.
He is an archivalist.
He keeps everything.
Ironically, this was on the same day that I felt compelled to go to the library and read poetry. I felt it was my duty to keep the synergy going and take the Nunn and Rexroth books to the checkout.
It cost me $2.
Turns out I don't have DALVA
So after my shower and some coffee, I head off to the sale.
Run into a few book-loving freaks like myself that I know.
Say hello.
Good luck.
Happy hunting.
I'm only sort of half with it from the sleepless night and I don't have the time to do any real serious browsing.
I hit up the basics: poetry, biographies, fiction.
The poetry section is weak and blurred together with drama and classics. I don't see any City Lights Pocket Poetry Series chapbooks (easily identifiable by their size) so I head off to biographies hoping to find a good one by Nick Tosches (on Sonny Liston or Dean Martin specifically) but find no such luck. Browse the fiction. See a Jim Harrision book - Dalva - which I'm convinced I already have in hardback, this one here is soft cover.
So I pass on it.
Oftentimes, I'm so fixated on trying to land a certain score that I end up buying it twice. I've done this with records many times.
I go back to biographies one last time before I leave. Along the way I spot Kem Nunn's THE DOGS OF WINTER which I recently read and it was one of the best books I consumed in quite some time.
I pick it up because it is hardcover and vow to send/give my soft cover copy to someone in the near future.
Back I biographies, I spot one on Kenneth Rexroth - who is one of the grandaddies of San Francisco's epic Beat lit scene - and pick it up.
I had just gotten an email from a friend of mine about how I was a great American poet after he discovered a long lost stash of poems I'd sent him years ago.
He is an archivalist.
He keeps everything.
Ironically, this was on the same day that I felt compelled to go to the library and read poetry. I felt it was my duty to keep the synergy going and take the Nunn and Rexroth books to the checkout.
It cost me $2.
Turns out I don't have DALVA
Sleepless In Carolina
The House Of G was kept awake last night by sickness.
4-yr.old Spencer's coughing and stuffy nose kept him awake.
Beckoning mommy or daddy to his room to blow his nose, get him a drink or give him yum-yums (Simply Stuffy - a children's decongestant).
Roughly 2:45am I awoke to a heartburn induced dry cough attack.
Must have been the nachos consumed while watching that shitty "scary" movie called the VILLAGE. At least it's not scary 45 minutes into and that's when I pulled the plug on it because I kept finding myself looking at the inside of my eyelids.
I've had a scratchy throat since I butchered my voice during Wednesday night's band practice. The makeshift P.A. just isn't cutting it. I'm finding it harder and harder to hear my vocals so I end up yelling more, making me sound like some Baldwin brother for a few days.
So I'm up coughing, drinking juice, sucking on a Ricola and doing just about anything to right the situation.
Drinking dry pilsner beers and toking on a one hitter doing the movie surely did not help.
I retreat to the back room as to not wake those who are trying to get some sleep and snuggle under a blanket with the TV on, volume real low. Finally sleep comes.
Then Spencer waltzes in a says it's time to get up. I drag myself
and the blanket to the family room, turn on the TV for him and lay down. I never looke at the clock. Several shows later I look:
it's only 6:15am.
I deduct I have easily been up since 5am.
It's at this time the wife stirs, feeling edgey and awake from whiskey consumption and allows me to return to bed for sleep.
It seems to take forever to get back to sleep and I even dream about already being asleep and having to wake up.
8:30 am. I'm torn awake by the most amazing leg cramp I've ever had. Not since my days as a bicycle messenger in Los Angeles have I woken up in writhing pain, twisting and turning, rubbing the cramp.
I get up and shower.
4-yr.old Spencer's coughing and stuffy nose kept him awake.
Beckoning mommy or daddy to his room to blow his nose, get him a drink or give him yum-yums (Simply Stuffy - a children's decongestant).
Roughly 2:45am I awoke to a heartburn induced dry cough attack.
Must have been the nachos consumed while watching that shitty "scary" movie called the VILLAGE. At least it's not scary 45 minutes into and that's when I pulled the plug on it because I kept finding myself looking at the inside of my eyelids.
I've had a scratchy throat since I butchered my voice during Wednesday night's band practice. The makeshift P.A. just isn't cutting it. I'm finding it harder and harder to hear my vocals so I end up yelling more, making me sound like some Baldwin brother for a few days.
So I'm up coughing, drinking juice, sucking on a Ricola and doing just about anything to right the situation.
Drinking dry pilsner beers and toking on a one hitter doing the movie surely did not help.
I retreat to the back room as to not wake those who are trying to get some sleep and snuggle under a blanket with the TV on, volume real low. Finally sleep comes.
Then Spencer waltzes in a says it's time to get up. I drag myself
and the blanket to the family room, turn on the TV for him and lay down. I never looke at the clock. Several shows later I look:
it's only 6:15am.
I deduct I have easily been up since 5am.
It's at this time the wife stirs, feeling edgey and awake from whiskey consumption and allows me to return to bed for sleep.
It seems to take forever to get back to sleep and I even dream about already being asleep and having to wake up.
8:30 am. I'm torn awake by the most amazing leg cramp I've ever had. Not since my days as a bicycle messenger in Los Angeles have I woken up in writhing pain, twisting and turning, rubbing the cramp.
I get up and shower.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Confessions Of A Punk Rock Dad
It's amazing how many people see a man with two kids and think
he's just got them for a day; a couple of hours.
Little comments.
I hear them.
Like today, at the grocery store. I'm picking a few essential items up for dinner: gorgonzola cheese, white wine, beer, peppercorn sauce and Ricola cough drops.
I'm planning on stuffing the filet mignon I got last week when it was on sale with the cheese, and coat it with the peppercorn sauce. Serve it up with rice and steamed broccoli.
In line to check out, almost 2-yr.-old Cole starts fidgeting in my arms. He wants to slide my debit card through the machine. Arms are flailing. Legs whipping. I'm trying to get him to chill out.
Suddenly, an elder gentleman - white beard, balding - holds up Cole's little stuffed horsey, the comfort item he brings everywhere. And says, "Mom would have known what he needed."
Arrrggghh.
Reminds me of the time I saw a woman at the park with her two kids, me with mine. "Must be nice," she said while watching me help Spencer onto the monkey bars. "To have a flexible schedule
that allows you to spend time with your kids."
Best was the time I was at Target, struggling to get the little monkies into their car seats when a mini van pulled up next to me. The woman got out of the driver's seat and slide the van door
open, still watching me wrestle the boys into their seats. She had one toddler and another on the way. "Is today 'Day With Daddy' day?" she asked.
"Everyday is 'Day With Daddy' day," I said.
he's just got them for a day; a couple of hours.
Little comments.
I hear them.
Like today, at the grocery store. I'm picking a few essential items up for dinner: gorgonzola cheese, white wine, beer, peppercorn sauce and Ricola cough drops.
I'm planning on stuffing the filet mignon I got last week when it was on sale with the cheese, and coat it with the peppercorn sauce. Serve it up with rice and steamed broccoli.
In line to check out, almost 2-yr.-old Cole starts fidgeting in my arms. He wants to slide my debit card through the machine. Arms are flailing. Legs whipping. I'm trying to get him to chill out.
Suddenly, an elder gentleman - white beard, balding - holds up Cole's little stuffed horsey, the comfort item he brings everywhere. And says, "Mom would have known what he needed."
Arrrggghh.
Reminds me of the time I saw a woman at the park with her two kids, me with mine. "Must be nice," she said while watching me help Spencer onto the monkey bars. "To have a flexible schedule
that allows you to spend time with your kids."
Best was the time I was at Target, struggling to get the little monkies into their car seats when a mini van pulled up next to me. The woman got out of the driver's seat and slide the van door
open, still watching me wrestle the boys into their seats. She had one toddler and another on the way. "Is today 'Day With Daddy' day?" she asked.
"Everyday is 'Day With Daddy' day," I said.
Thirst For Verse
The sky yesterday was so striking: all Carolina blue and loaded with puffy ice cream coulds.
The kind of thing, I thought, that moves poets to write their verse.
I drove to the library to bury my head in the words of great
poets. But the selection of their collection was weak by my standards.
I sat in my truck looking at the sky, staring at a leaf less tree mulling over the fact that what I saw above me had moved me so much.
It's been over a decade since I wrote a decent poem.
Probably half as long since I had the thirst for verse.
By night's end, I had pulled the brown folder out of my desk drawer, the one marked O.P.P. (other people's poetry) and read the words of impassioned men, tired men, lonely men, drunk men.
I started with Berryman (first name John).
Moved on to Simic (first name Charles).
A little Williams (first name Miller),
some Flint (first name Roland),
and Stokesbury (first name Leon).
and I'm seeing things a little differently today.
The kind of thing, I thought, that moves poets to write their verse.
I drove to the library to bury my head in the words of great
poets. But the selection of their collection was weak by my standards.
I sat in my truck looking at the sky, staring at a leaf less tree mulling over the fact that what I saw above me had moved me so much.
It's been over a decade since I wrote a decent poem.
Probably half as long since I had the thirst for verse.
By night's end, I had pulled the brown folder out of my desk drawer, the one marked O.P.P. (other people's poetry) and read the words of impassioned men, tired men, lonely men, drunk men.
I started with Berryman (first name John).
Moved on to Simic (first name Charles).
A little Williams (first name Miller),
some Flint (first name Roland),
and Stokesbury (first name Leon).
and I'm seeing things a little differently today.
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