RABBI

I'm not talking about the teachers of half of my unobserved faith. No, I'm talking about my newly founded organization: Runners Against Bad Biking Individuals (RABBI). That could probably use a little work. Edit: I changed "idiots" to individuals. Also, bad-biking might connote that they are bad-ass, but really it's a grammatical shortcoming implying that these bikers do not excel at biking. I really wanted it to be abbreviated RABBI as you can tell, but perhaps RAPBI is not bad either, though potentially confused with bisexual or bipolar rappers.

That's a little non-sequitury, even by my standards so allow me to explain. See sometimes I like to focus on really positive stuff that I enjoy, like taking a bum shower outside a bar in a thunderstorm but the fact is, for the time being, the most prominent thing on my mind is getting rear-ended by a biker last night while running. Not a motorcycle, a bike-bikes-bikecycle. Who gets hit by a bicycle? I know, I've repeated this very phrase many times since last night when this occurred.

The story is less homosexual than a lead in like "getting rear-ended by a biker" may originally have insinuated. So there I was, doing my thing on the Lake Shore pedestrian and bike path, my thing being running, when I thought I'd go around a couple of women walking in front of me rather than maintaining my full speed and slamming into their backs. Seemed like common courtesy, and I do this quite frequently, every day while walking and running in fact, amounting to tens of thousands of times even. The guy on the Specialized road bike behind me apparently has a different concept of etiquette, deciding instead to slam straight into my back. Oh those points of contention. Now even though I was simply navigating around a couple of walkers, I did look behind me because asshole bikers are always riding much too fast and much too close to myself and others. Didn't matter as I didn't see the guy and I guess he didn't see me. I get wanting to move quickly, I do it myself occasionally, but this is a shared path, and not really the place for it. Those damned shared free spaces and their idea of rules. I was probably in the wrong.

Lucky for the guy on the bike I am a total pussy and completely broke his fall, leaving he and his bike unscathed. I asked if he was okay, and he me, seeming awfully concerned that I was training for something. I said no, as if it would make a difference either way. I suppose he might have felt a little worse if I had said yes, but that won't heal my body any faster and I don't think he'll be covering my medical bills. I just found a snapshot of the path where it went down (I was going in the other direction, not that it matters).



So I took it left knee first and since it's a paved path it took a lot of my skin off, including a delightful chunk out of my inner right arm. I like to say it looks like Jared Leto in Requiem. It's an exaggeration, but when it was still bleeding I think it was pretty spot on. The thing is, as pissed as I was from having road rash, oozing wounds, and a really swollen knee, the guy who hit me wasn't a bad guy or anything. I just don't know why he was biking so fast and, more importantly, into my back.

So, to keep this an entry you don't want to read and view during a meal, here are a couple of dinky photos from photobooth.


What up ribs?



The crowning achievement.

Photos of my knees just came out blurry and my left knee is so swollen it looks like a fake shadow. No matter.

After the collision I limped around for a little while at which point, since I was still two miles from my apartment, I decided I ought to just jog it home. My left knee got a little stiff, but otherwise it was all good. As blood dripped down my legs and from my right forearm and sand-covered road rash adorned my ribs, I took pride in being met with periodic cries of "Jesus Christ" and "What the fuck?" as I cruised home. Perhaps pride is the wrong word. So with my future as a forearm model in serious jeopardy, I'm off to go investigate some other career options.

AC Drip

The title is not in reference to the intellect of one Mario Lopez, no, it is in reference to the condensation that forms and drops from window air conditioning units, often onto unsuspecting humanoids below. In my case I am a suspecting humanoid, but they still get ya. There is really nothing particularly gross about it, but it tends to weird me out just the same. Where I am seated currently I am victim of an indoor AC drip, but it's preferable to the out of doors where I would be sitting in a puddle of my own vile cooling system.

The other night I stepped out of class and there were cop cars and fire department vehicles and that telltale yellow tape blocking off the streets of Old Town and onlookers seemed excited thinking it was the filming of the upcoming Transformers film. Instead it was a good old-fashioned bomb threat. What is the difference between a bomb threat and a bomb scare? I suppose the latter indicates the confirmed presence, or maybe it's when you just take the threat seriously. Reminded me what a lousy bomb diffuser I would be likely to make as a colorblinder. I believe certain other contributing factors would also make me a less-than-ideal selection for this position.

I love looking at lists like the "100 Best Places to Live." Not quite as ironic as calling something a "best kept secret," but I would think putting these places on the radar more might lead to their decline. Then again, maybe not, since I won't be moving to any of them. There's something fun about seeing lists of places I'll never live, great places to raise my imaginary family, and also marveling at how much money some people really have. I had some other stuff, and even things, to discuss, but they are eluding me for the time being.

Don't melt this weekend folks. Cheers.

Pooparoni

Some people say they would give you the shirt off their back. I like to think I am one of them, one reason being that I have done it before, but also because I am so damned sweaty that a shirt is a waste of time for me. By token of this very same virtue, you may not want the shirt I am offering. This has always been abundantly clear to me and I'm sure I've stated it before, but I never said I wasn't redundant.

In line with redundancy, one might say I made the same calculated error on back-to-back evenings in consuming pepperoni pizza. Rarely in my lifetime have I consumed this Jew-forbidden meat, but I admit to its salted deliciousness. In discovering this, I also discovered its propensity for giving me heartburn, especially the day after. Though I successfully dodged this bullet after Sunday evening consumption, a repeat performance Monday was not to be had. This is not entirely accurate, as I did not suffer heartburn, merely burn in another arena. And no, I did not mean area. Inaccuracy abounds as it may not have been the pepperoni but, in fact, the undercooked cheese, of which there was a great quantity, and the undercooked dough. Mmmmmm...

While I seem to pay quite often for the substances I choose to ingest, the opposite appears true regarding one of my old high school teammates. Probably standing 5'5" and weighing in at something like a buck-twenty-five, this monstrosity manages to consume frightening quantities of booze and gut-rending munchies. When people discuss eating and drinking prowess, it is easy to remain skeptical without proof, but I would say his newly launched blog is reasonable proof. I'd use his name, but I like the mystery of things like eyes blocked out with photoshop paint that is a theme on said blog.

In other news, it wouldn't hurt for it to get a little less hot and humid up in this mother. I must choose my days for wearing khaki shorts very carefully as swamp-ass is a foregone conclusion. Admitting this may seem a bit gross, but when the telltale miniature heart-shape of damp becomes visible on the lower ass of my shorts to anonymous real-life humans, why not share it with anonymous internet ones as well.

Anyway, the face of the girl sitting at around 10 o'clock from me is really starting to piss me off so I've got to shuttle out of here. I can only fight the urge to laugh like a maniac or pour coffee onto her computer/face for so long. I think I watched too much negative stand-up last night! I need to study up on Einstein's Theory of Negativity...Plus I'm really hungry. Happy Wednesday!

Charles Barkley on the American Flag

I was going to say and now that I'm typing it I guess I am saying that it is hotter than monkey tits out. I don't even know that monkey tits get that hot. Probably not, since those dude[tte]s live in some pretty tropical climates and have all that fur and yet don't combust or anything. It's also muy humid, which is my homage to Spain on winning the World Cup. I have to get around to learning some Spanish. Muy caliente, not to be confused with muy caliendo, which is synonymous with not being funny but then getting your own TV show called Frank TV but then dropping off the face of the Earth soon after. I take that back, nothing against Frank, he just wasn't for me. I hope he got paid a lot of money and is retired nicely somewhere. I would like to do that too.

My brain is addled from excessive writing attempts, but I needed a mid-month update in here to keep pace so here it be. Some props to Charles Barkley because every time I wear his Phoenix Suns jersey I get props galore from humans on the street. Thanks Chuck. Similarly, American flag stuff goes over huge. I was rocking my American flags shorts as referenced in the last entry here, strolling down the Lake Shore path (is that a proper noun, I don't know) this time when I was stopped by a bikini-clad twelve year-old. By strolling I mean running and I should also probably point out I was wearing mismatched shoes, another frequent occurrence for myself. She was with several other children of her approximated age and she asked if I would take a picture with them. Normally I hate to stop during runs, but since I'm not good at running anymore, I said yes. I mean, that's a tenet of improv anyway, say yes. So there I am, drenched in sweat, arms around two giggling twelve year-old girls in bikinis while a couple of dudes and I believe one more girl get into frame to have a photo taken by yet another child of similar age. What these kids were doing out there by themselves who knows. "Yeah, 'cause this isn't weird," is all I could muster. I wish I'd given them my email so I could post the photo, I really do. Good thing I never plan to run for public office.

The very next day, I yesterday learned, one of my Second City classmates witnessed me running down this path. He then proceeded to do an impression of my running. I have long known I run like a total goof, but seeing impressions of it never gets old. I hope I do not look like he made it out that I do, and yet it would explain the insane looks I get from most everyone I pass on the path. That, my short length (and by this I mean the length of my shorts), and my propensity for dancing to the tunes flowing through the old noggin.

But I've got to go outside and soak through my t-shirt again and then go for one of these runs I was talking about. Stay tuned for more unexciting adventures.

Fourth of Jew-Lie

Scheisser! I like totally meant to get down to business in here like before this but then I went out to Maine for the holiday and the internet was not in the cards. Yeah internet, sorry, I had better things to do. It seems the internet had better things to do too. Maine really is a magical land and a whole other world. They do call it "Vacationland" (it even says it on the license plate), and maybe it's the state motto. I could easily look it up, but I try to rely on my actual brain and it's every dwindling efficiencies and knowledge. I would call it the lobster state if I were in charge. This is not the reason I am not in charge, but it's certainly a reason.

But Maine is also really weird and it gives you an idea why Stephen King writes those stories of his. I haven't actually read any of his stories, but I know enough about them for it to make sense. Like the pick-up parked at my motel that had recyclables in the bed and trash stacked, and stuck, to the ceiling in the passenger seat. I never saw the owner, and I don't know that I'd want to. As anyone on the East coast knows, it was also hot as monkeys this weekend past. They should shave off the fur.

The 4th I nearly melted in the heat and was dressed as a complete asshat, but because my shorts had the American flag on them, the great town of Kennebunkport supported me. Thanks America.


Approximation from 2005. These days I am less fit and invite dislike with a fauxhawk-mohawk. I was also wearing red and white soccer socks. I delight in dressing like an ass. The hat is optional.

In other oddity, as I was out for a joggle (which is a jog that boggles your mind due to excessive heat and you're all wondering why you are running and stuff) my last morning I saw a man in a wheelchair moving ever-so-slowly down a rural-ass road. That is most roads in Maine, but believe me, it was rural. And it was hot. I passed him and, when I turned around, I noted him stopped there.

Turns out he had slid off the cambered road and couldn't get going on the smooth asphalt (or whatever substance it was paved with) so he asked me to pull him up. I even asked if he wanted to be wheeled somewhere in particular. I have no idea where that guy would have come from or where he was headed, but I sure hope he made it there. Maybe he was just stir crazy as I was once post-surgery when I decided to crutch a neighborhood loop (which made me sore as shit for a couple of days there). These occurrences are meant to have inspired a short story from me, which will be a nice break from longer stuff I've been trying to write and edit through.

Also, I think there needs to be an official Independence Day dance, or a separate day called Independance Day, where they just play Billy Idol's Dancing With Myself. There can also be an Indepenance Day, unless you see something wrong with that...

I hope you've all been watching the World Cup because it's been pretty awesome. I have to say I dig Spain's style and I won't be disappointed if they or the Dutch win it, although the Dutch struck me as a bit floppy last match. Germany's exit was tough because I liked their energy and yelling "Schweinsteiger". I will continue yelling it though, because I'm an idiot.

Remember to use the fake German accent. I promise, it's fun...SCHWEINSTEIGER!!!!!!!!