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When I was in high school, I used to bike pretty much everywhere. Soccer practice, friends’ houses, Music Warehouse–anywhere I had to be I got there by bicycle. My buddy and I had annual passes to Knott’s Berry Farm and we spent a lot of summer days there. A few times we went over to the beach…even though none of us liked to swim. I biked to Disneyland when I didn’t feel like driving just because I could (Disneyland, Knott’s, and the beach were all with in biking distance…yet somehow I was always bored). I think my radius was about ten miles.
A couple years after high school I abandoned my bicycling ways. Work ended up being too far to bike and it was awfully hard to pick up girls for dates on a Huffy. Like most things in life, it’s not like I stopped biking cold turkey: it sorta just phased its way out of my life.
But for years I’ve felt bad about it. I used to love biking. It was fun, easy, and fast (mainly ’cause I ignored every traffic law imaginable). When I went to college, it was easier to bike there because finding a parking . . . . .
My brother’s birthday was last week. He wanted me to come join him and some friends in LA at a bar around 9:30 at night. I had to decline. It has nothing to do with LA, booze, or even my brother. The real hold up is the 9:30 part.
I don’t know what happened to me or where the turning point came, but 9:30 at night feels so late. At 9:30 if I’m not sleepy, I’m thinking about being sleepy. Who goes out at 9:30? Nine-thirty should be coming home time. It should be the end of your evening–not the start.
I’ve gotten so old. It used to be 9:30 was a great time to go out. When I used to go to the movies with friends, I loved the post-11 p.m. showings. You could go out, have dinner, goof around, and then go see a movie. Now I dread shows after eight because I like to be home before ten. Having a fulltime job has a lot to do with it–but many folks party all night and still show up to work every morning. I’m just old.
A lesbian couple in Seattle made news this week because they were . . . . .
I have a theory that when I was a little kid–possibly even before I was born–a giant bonked me on the head with the bottom of his fist. It’s the only explanation I can come up with. My head is a gigantic enormousity. My feet are too wide for the widest shoes Nike can make. My broad shoulders make sitting next to someone in a movie theater or ball game extremely uncomfortable. Even my tonsils have been diagnosis as “unusually large” by doctors. I’ve got a six-foot-five body stuck in a five-foot-six frame. Everything it too wide. Even something as simple as buying batting gloves proves to be difficult (the sizer says my fingers are as long as a tee baller but because my wrist is wider than a sumo wrestler’s, they always rip at the seams). It’s discouraging ’cause nothing on my body fits my body. Even my wide ass doesn’t fit for someone this short–or white.
I know I don’t entirely take care of myself. I’m getting better. Now I take Tylenol when I get a headache and Tums for indigestion. But I used to just ‘tough’ out uncomfortable situations. As I get older, I’m doing a better . . . . .
I got old fast. I don’t know when it happened, but at one point I turned into an old fuddy-duddy. This weekend, I tried to watch “Knocked Up.” I say tried because I turned the DVD off about 40 minutes into the movie. I found the dialogue to be incredibly crude and offensive. Pubic hair this. Pubic hair that. Smoke some weed. Talking about smoking weed. More pubic hair references. It was beyond lowbrow. It was crude and offensive.
I don’t think necessarily the subject matters bothered me–I just didn’t like how things were presented. There can be plenty of funny, obscene jokes. There real talent is in how you deliver them. In “Knocked Up,” the script made no attempt to be creative. The mere mention of the word ‘bush’ was supposed to be funny. To me, that’s not funny–is vulgar.
Maybe I’m just too out of touch with things. I know this Judd Apatow is supposed to be the greatest thing in cinema comedy today. Maybe the film was smarter than I give it credit for–it wanted to show how the main character and his friends are all a bunch of lowlife losers. But as far as interesting dialogue, . . . . .
Don’t try to eat Cap’n Crunch when your teeth hurt: you’re better off chewing on tin foil.
While those who are close to me dispute it, I think I definitely look younger than I am. I will admit that I’m having difficulty accepting the fact I’m older and my current age (I still haven’t verbalized it yet), it doesn’t change the fact many people think I’m younger than I am.
We hired a new receptionist about two months ago and just recently I’ve started talking to her. See, everyone wants to be in the television business. We hire a lot of folks who are looking to become stars. They take crappy jobs (like receptionist) in hopes of it getting their foot in the door. Usually after being with us for a month, they realize there is no door and they’re working a crappy job at a tiny television station. The way I see it: why waste my time getting to know someone when there’s a good chance they’re gonna quit in a month anyway?
But since the receptionist has been with us for longer than a month, I decided to start talking to her. We have a bit of a . . . . .
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