Zappos shoes has changed my life, have I mentioned this?
Oh, just in case you are thinking that I have completely sold out, that is not yet the case. Just testing to see if I can get the pesky ads on the side there to change to something that might get your attention.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Bike shorts do not lie
I am once again a cyclist. There are very few things I know about life, and as I age, those things seem to be getting fewer and fewer.
I have a friend who recently said this, "have you lost weight?" I had not, but I think he said that as some sort of off handed compliment, as if losing weight is everyone's secret goal in life. In fact, I have been putting on weight, but my weighty friend seemed to have invested so much energy in the idea that I may have lost weight, I could not not bring myself to tell him the truth.
I don't own a scale. So on the day to day tabulation of weight gain and weight loss, I am not a player. I just know these things to be true. Lately, I have been gaining weight, at some points in my life I have lost, and sooner or later, I will again find balance.
The point of all of this is that we can not always trust our friends when it comes to honest appraisals of our personal upkeep, which is why I like bike shorts. I was preparing for my morning ride earlier and as I tugged on the shorts I noticed how abused they were. On the right side are some road rips, and on the left, some stitching is coming undone.
The interesting side is the right, where at some point my hip slid across some asphalt and ripped up the shorts. Part of what interested me about the rip is that I have no memory of that particular crash. I know, for instance, that a few years ago I touched some black ice, my bike disappeared and I had a crash. In that instance, my biking clothes were cut off me by paramedics, so I do not even have those anymore. So where did the rips on these shorts come from?
Bike shorts do a number of things for a rider, the hold muscles tight, which is nice, they provide a pad so you do not injure sensitive reproductive areas of the body and they offer diet advice. I am often shirtless when I put shorts on in the morning and there happens to be a mirror hanging nearby. Bike shorts are designed to fit snugly, so there is not a lot of mystery to your body when you are wearing them. What is interesting is the stomach fat that tends to get pushed up and over the tight edge of the shorts. I have been in great shape and I have been in terrible shape, and no matter what shape I was in, there is always a layer of fat that hangs over the edge of bike shorts.
That is what I admire about bike shorts. They are not designed to stroke a riders ego, they are function over neurosis. It does take a certain degree of self confidence to think you can wear bike shorts without looking all sorts of disgusting. We have all seen people wearing tight clothes that should not have been worn in public. Cyclists can make this same mistake, but certainly not as often as say, Pardam Vaccua.
Pardam is the Indian Lance Armstrong, except for two things, he has only one leg and weighs well over 300 pounds. I met Pardam as he was hopping to work recently and we got to talking. Pardam is a bike messenger is Berlin. He lost his leg in a freak dance competition accident that is rather famous for anyone who has watched anything on YouTube.
Pardam was wearing specially made one legged bike shorts and I asked him how he managed a, to ride with only one leg and 3, how he managed to maintain his enormous weight when he rode a bike for a living.
Pardam does not speak english, but his sister, Padma does. I called her last week and asked her to interpret what her brother has said. "Pardam is dead to me," was all she would say. I just needed to know the answers to these two questions, and as she hung up the phone all I could hear was, "Pardam is dead to me."
I went for a ride with Pardam and I noticed a couple of reasons why he might not be losing the weight that most cyclists do. First, he rides side saddle, which is both disgusting and funny. Second, his bike has an engine, so even a one legged fat man could ride and get the deliveries done. I mimed to Pardam that he would be in better shape if he actually peddled a bike and he looked at me like I might be insane.
It is a look I know all too well.
I have a friend who recently said this, "have you lost weight?" I had not, but I think he said that as some sort of off handed compliment, as if losing weight is everyone's secret goal in life. In fact, I have been putting on weight, but my weighty friend seemed to have invested so much energy in the idea that I may have lost weight, I could not not bring myself to tell him the truth.
I don't own a scale. So on the day to day tabulation of weight gain and weight loss, I am not a player. I just know these things to be true. Lately, I have been gaining weight, at some points in my life I have lost, and sooner or later, I will again find balance.
The point of all of this is that we can not always trust our friends when it comes to honest appraisals of our personal upkeep, which is why I like bike shorts. I was preparing for my morning ride earlier and as I tugged on the shorts I noticed how abused they were. On the right side are some road rips, and on the left, some stitching is coming undone.
The interesting side is the right, where at some point my hip slid across some asphalt and ripped up the shorts. Part of what interested me about the rip is that I have no memory of that particular crash. I know, for instance, that a few years ago I touched some black ice, my bike disappeared and I had a crash. In that instance, my biking clothes were cut off me by paramedics, so I do not even have those anymore. So where did the rips on these shorts come from?
Bike shorts do a number of things for a rider, the hold muscles tight, which is nice, they provide a pad so you do not injure sensitive reproductive areas of the body and they offer diet advice. I am often shirtless when I put shorts on in the morning and there happens to be a mirror hanging nearby. Bike shorts are designed to fit snugly, so there is not a lot of mystery to your body when you are wearing them. What is interesting is the stomach fat that tends to get pushed up and over the tight edge of the shorts. I have been in great shape and I have been in terrible shape, and no matter what shape I was in, there is always a layer of fat that hangs over the edge of bike shorts.
That is what I admire about bike shorts. They are not designed to stroke a riders ego, they are function over neurosis. It does take a certain degree of self confidence to think you can wear bike shorts without looking all sorts of disgusting. We have all seen people wearing tight clothes that should not have been worn in public. Cyclists can make this same mistake, but certainly not as often as say, Pardam Vaccua.
Pardam is the Indian Lance Armstrong, except for two things, he has only one leg and weighs well over 300 pounds. I met Pardam as he was hopping to work recently and we got to talking. Pardam is a bike messenger is Berlin. He lost his leg in a freak dance competition accident that is rather famous for anyone who has watched anything on YouTube.
Pardam was wearing specially made one legged bike shorts and I asked him how he managed a, to ride with only one leg and 3, how he managed to maintain his enormous weight when he rode a bike for a living.
Pardam does not speak english, but his sister, Padma does. I called her last week and asked her to interpret what her brother has said. "Pardam is dead to me," was all she would say. I just needed to know the answers to these two questions, and as she hung up the phone all I could hear was, "Pardam is dead to me."
I went for a ride with Pardam and I noticed a couple of reasons why he might not be losing the weight that most cyclists do. First, he rides side saddle, which is both disgusting and funny. Second, his bike has an engine, so even a one legged fat man could ride and get the deliveries done. I mimed to Pardam that he would be in better shape if he actually peddled a bike and he looked at me like I might be insane.
It is a look I know all too well.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Marty is here right now
Sometimes gods work in mysterious ways. I had to work from home today, while the world continues to spin, my particular world is spinning in a different direction.
So I have everything set up in the bright red dining room, my latop on the table, an external hard drive that contains the latest project that I am working on and a large pot of freshly brewed Vivace Coffee, express mailed to me this morning from a dear friend in the nations capital, Seattle.
So the doorbell rings, which is strange, because we have lived here something like 12 years now and the doorbell has never worked, or no one has tried it, either way, for 12 long years it has been silent.
Then this. I look up and there is a man in a uniform, which could mean a variety of things, but in this case, it looked to be an overnight delivery. I was wearing pajama bottoms and one of my wifes old teddies, no comment, I was working from home so I took advantage of the relaxed dress policy inherent in the working from home rules.
I answered, he handed me a clipboard, I signed and he pushed a fairly large box through my doorway, smiled, said have a good day and turned. I said, what is this, and he looked back over his shoulder and said, "Marty".
With the front door shut I think I did what any right minded American would do in such a situation, I opened the box. Out sprang Marty, a 200 pound gorilla, or orangutan or something. Large, furry, exotic and kind of adorable. He jumped from the box, to the floor, springing into the living room, hitting the couch sideways and jumping onto the loveseat, stopping just long enough to pee, then he ran into the dining room, where my laptop was set up with an external drive so I could work from home, he raced through there, around the corner, into the kitchen and back into the entryway.
I called out Marty and he stopped in his tracks. He cocked his head over his shoulder and looked at me. I looked back at the box, grabbed the delivery information and walked into the dining room. Marty sheepishly followed me and stood next to my indoor hibiscus. As he stood watching me, I read the delivering information for the package that once contained Marty. I knew there must have been a mistake, because even tough sometimes I forget how I found myself in the bread section of the local grocery store, I certainly remember when I order 200 pound gorillas.
There is was, an address nearly identical to mine, except for 3 numbers of 14 letters. I called the delivery company and they acknowledged that some of their crack addicted drivers sometimes make small mistakes, and that in cases like that they offer two options, I could keep the package, in this case Marty, a pooping (in the corner while I write this) and peeing gorilla of some sort, or, B, within 10 days they could send a new box and a retrieval agent to pick up Marty.
Marty was painting on the dining room wall with his feces. How could I resist. I hung up the phone.
So I have everything set up in the bright red dining room, my latop on the table, an external hard drive that contains the latest project that I am working on and a large pot of freshly brewed Vivace Coffee, express mailed to me this morning from a dear friend in the nations capital, Seattle.
So the doorbell rings, which is strange, because we have lived here something like 12 years now and the doorbell has never worked, or no one has tried it, either way, for 12 long years it has been silent.
Then this. I look up and there is a man in a uniform, which could mean a variety of things, but in this case, it looked to be an overnight delivery. I was wearing pajama bottoms and one of my wifes old teddies, no comment, I was working from home so I took advantage of the relaxed dress policy inherent in the working from home rules.
I answered, he handed me a clipboard, I signed and he pushed a fairly large box through my doorway, smiled, said have a good day and turned. I said, what is this, and he looked back over his shoulder and said, "Marty".
With the front door shut I think I did what any right minded American would do in such a situation, I opened the box. Out sprang Marty, a 200 pound gorilla, or orangutan or something. Large, furry, exotic and kind of adorable. He jumped from the box, to the floor, springing into the living room, hitting the couch sideways and jumping onto the loveseat, stopping just long enough to pee, then he ran into the dining room, where my laptop was set up with an external drive so I could work from home, he raced through there, around the corner, into the kitchen and back into the entryway.
I called out Marty and he stopped in his tracks. He cocked his head over his shoulder and looked at me. I looked back at the box, grabbed the delivery information and walked into the dining room. Marty sheepishly followed me and stood next to my indoor hibiscus. As he stood watching me, I read the delivering information for the package that once contained Marty. I knew there must have been a mistake, because even tough sometimes I forget how I found myself in the bread section of the local grocery store, I certainly remember when I order 200 pound gorillas.
There is was, an address nearly identical to mine, except for 3 numbers of 14 letters. I called the delivery company and they acknowledged that some of their crack addicted drivers sometimes make small mistakes, and that in cases like that they offer two options, I could keep the package, in this case Marty, a pooping (in the corner while I write this) and peeing gorilla of some sort, or, B, within 10 days they could send a new box and a retrieval agent to pick up Marty.
Marty was painting on the dining room wall with his feces. How could I resist. I hung up the phone.
Monday, May 2, 2011
'Ello
I know it's hard to believe, but this just in, people in Australia are reading this blog. So, a couple of things for the new Australian readers. First, this is an English language blog, so if you have trouble understanding the words, email your questions and our intern, Becky Bozangas will answer.
Second, the DG blog attorney, Beth Libitard esq, is from Australia, although she does not have one of those obnoxious accents, nor does she have any more shrimp on the Barbie.
Finally, welcome. This blog is the most intellectual, sorry, I mean ineffectual blog in America, so enjoy.
Second, the DG blog attorney, Beth Libitard esq, is from Australia, although she does not have one of those obnoxious accents, nor does she have any more shrimp on the Barbie.
Finally, welcome. This blog is the most intellectual, sorry, I mean ineffectual blog in America, so enjoy.
Osama dead, how did you party?
I am as happy as anyone that Osama Bin Ladin has disappeared. What I am not so sure about is the people who, on a late Sunday night, find the time to show up at the white house and party.
Stupids driving
I had some work to do downtown, so I walked it, as is my practice. As I was prancing, yes I prance, across a crosswalk, a car making a left, kept coming, directly at me.
Now, first things first, I have often told my young innocent babies that while walking humans have the right of way on all streets, especially in crosswalks, and you will likely win the lawsuit over the fat headed idiot who runs you over, what you will not win is a new hip or the ability to dance without pain. So, in short, avoid getting hit even though you may be in the right.
That said, last week I was notified that I am now listed as a qualified spokesman for Traumatic Brain Injury. So, imagine that, someday in the future you may be watching your big giant TV box and a story on brain injuries comes on and before you can find the remote to change channels, there is my distorted and grotesque face, crying about this or that, possibly the Trump presidency, possibly just gas, but without a doubt, speaking up on behalf of my brothers and sisters who have suffered injuries to the noggin.
I was not thinking about that as this car bore down on me this morning. Instead, I looked at the driver, who happened to be on the phone and showing no sign of seeing me, or planning to stop. Just then, my neck was yanked back, along with my body. I could not see it at the time, but a large black hand had reached out from behind me, grabbed my collar and pulled, hard. The driver continued on her merry way, never slowing and she would have hit me had the large black hand not grabbed me and pulled.
I turned and the large man, with the large hand and the muscles strong enough to yank me from harms way smiled at me and said, "she sure was ignorant." I was trying to catch my breath and as I said thank you, he continued to speak into his phone, saying, "no, some guy almost got hit by an ignorant bitch."
So dreadlocked man with muscled and a gentle touch, because you did not ruin my shirt as you saved my life and you were sweet enough to describe the driver in terms that were both fitting and accurate, I proudly say, thank you dear man. For without you and your strong hand, I might have lost the ability to speak on behalf of traumatic brain injury, or much more, today, in a crosswalk, in a city in America.
Now, first things first, I have often told my young innocent babies that while walking humans have the right of way on all streets, especially in crosswalks, and you will likely win the lawsuit over the fat headed idiot who runs you over, what you will not win is a new hip or the ability to dance without pain. So, in short, avoid getting hit even though you may be in the right.
That said, last week I was notified that I am now listed as a qualified spokesman for Traumatic Brain Injury. So, imagine that, someday in the future you may be watching your big giant TV box and a story on brain injuries comes on and before you can find the remote to change channels, there is my distorted and grotesque face, crying about this or that, possibly the Trump presidency, possibly just gas, but without a doubt, speaking up on behalf of my brothers and sisters who have suffered injuries to the noggin.
I was not thinking about that as this car bore down on me this morning. Instead, I looked at the driver, who happened to be on the phone and showing no sign of seeing me, or planning to stop. Just then, my neck was yanked back, along with my body. I could not see it at the time, but a large black hand had reached out from behind me, grabbed my collar and pulled, hard. The driver continued on her merry way, never slowing and she would have hit me had the large black hand not grabbed me and pulled.
I turned and the large man, with the large hand and the muscles strong enough to yank me from harms way smiled at me and said, "she sure was ignorant." I was trying to catch my breath and as I said thank you, he continued to speak into his phone, saying, "no, some guy almost got hit by an ignorant bitch."
So dreadlocked man with muscled and a gentle touch, because you did not ruin my shirt as you saved my life and you were sweet enough to describe the driver in terms that were both fitting and accurate, I proudly say, thank you dear man. For without you and your strong hand, I might have lost the ability to speak on behalf of traumatic brain injury, or much more, today, in a crosswalk, in a city in America.
The call from hell
My phone started ringing last night, but Sunday night is always Clash night at my house, a tradition. So I was sleeping to the comforting sounds of London Calling and I missed the first 17 calls that came in.
I dozed off and at some point the phone was ringing again. I looked at the screen and the images were the fires of hell, which meant my dear friend Becky from Hell was calling. Long story, Becky and I used to plot terrible things, mostly toward a number of ex's, but also against shoe salesmen, people who open great restaurants and then close them and a donkey named Taco.
Because our planning was so intricate and evil we both readily admitted that the mere talk of such dubious deeds would certainly guarantee us a place in hell, I believe Becky from Hell would refer to it as our Condo in Hell. Imagine my surprise to get a call at 3 AM this morning, from Becky from Hell who now actually resides in hell, having died a tragic death which, if news reports are too be believed, involved two members from the Los Angeles philharmonic and a fishing boat named Felix Navidad.
I answered.
Me; Of course you do not care what time it is.
Becky; Good morning to you too.
Me; Seriously. It's like 3 AM here.
Becky; Big news. Wake up.
Me; No, even big news can wait.
Becky; Seriously, do not hang up. Something big is happening.
Me; Not at 3AM it's not, at least not for me.
Becky; Look, I was at the Reagan-Nixon library studying...
Me; There's a Reagan-Nixon library in Hell?
Becky; Where else?
Me; Good point. (pause) What does one study at 3AM at the Reagan-Nixon library.
Becky; Toast. That's all they have, no books or audio tapes, ironically enough, but lots of toast.
Me; Toast?
Becky; Toast.
Me; Weird. So, you are enjoying some toast and you think you might want to call me?
Becky; Hang on a sec, (to someone walking by) No, fuck you Hitler. That's right, I am talking to you. Pussy. (focused) OK, where were we?
Me; Was that really Hitler?
Becky; Yeah, and the fucker owes me, like 34 million dollars. Never wins a bet, never pays. I hate Hitler.
Me; Join the club.
Becky; Anyway, I was toasting, that's what we call it in hell, toasting at the library and all of a sudden, over the loud speaks, there is this...
Me; There are loud speakers in Hell?
Becky; Yes, and the worst part, well, I mean the part that really makes this hell? Ryan Seacrest does all the announcements. See, when we used to go out for Mexican food and we would joke about a condo in hell, let me tell you something, hell is not a lot of fun.
Me; That's probably why they call it hell.
Becky; Good point.
Me; So, continue, you were toasting when Ryan Seacrest had an announcement.
Becky; Well, as you can imagine, in Hell there are announcements all the time, lottery numbers, the score of the Cubs games and the odds of Sarah Palin being elected president.
Me; Jesus, you people in hell vote on whether Palin gets elected president of the United States?
Becky; No, of course not, not even Americans are stupid enough to do that. No, we vote on whether she will be president of hell. Right now, she is a shoe in.
Me; Brilliant.
Becky; Anyway, Seacrest is all serious and says that we should all be cleaned up, that a major celebrity is on the way. I get all excited, because you know as well as I do, I have always admired Joan Rivers work.
Me; Joan Rivers died?
Becky; Years ago.
Me; So why is she just now getting to hell?
Becky; Purgatory.
Me; My people do not believe in purgatory.
Becky; I thought your people did not believe in hell.
Me; That too. Then again, you are calling from hell, eh?
Becky; Wait a second, Seacrest is announcing something.
Me; By the way, how is Ryan Secrest in hell, he is not dead.
Becky; Dead inside, that's all that counts.
Me; I did not know that. So what's the announcement?
Becky; Hang on, let me ask someone. (to someone else). Hey Saddam, what's the news? Seacrest is gay? That's the announcement? Oh, no, you thought that was funny. Saddam, you kill me. What is it? Joan Rivers? Fine by me.
Me; So what's happening in hell?
Becky; Apparently Bin Laden is on his way.
Me; No way. Osama Bin Ladin? Osama Bin Ladin is on his way to hell?
Becky; No, Billy Bin Ladin, his pretty son. Osama is in purgatory.
Me; That's probably not so bad.
Becky; With Joan Rivers.
Me; Ouch.
I dozed off and at some point the phone was ringing again. I looked at the screen and the images were the fires of hell, which meant my dear friend Becky from Hell was calling. Long story, Becky and I used to plot terrible things, mostly toward a number of ex's, but also against shoe salesmen, people who open great restaurants and then close them and a donkey named Taco.
Because our planning was so intricate and evil we both readily admitted that the mere talk of such dubious deeds would certainly guarantee us a place in hell, I believe Becky from Hell would refer to it as our Condo in Hell. Imagine my surprise to get a call at 3 AM this morning, from Becky from Hell who now actually resides in hell, having died a tragic death which, if news reports are too be believed, involved two members from the Los Angeles philharmonic and a fishing boat named Felix Navidad.
I answered.
Me; Of course you do not care what time it is.
Becky; Good morning to you too.
Me; Seriously. It's like 3 AM here.
Becky; Big news. Wake up.
Me; No, even big news can wait.
Becky; Seriously, do not hang up. Something big is happening.
Me; Not at 3AM it's not, at least not for me.
Becky; Look, I was at the Reagan-Nixon library studying...
Me; There's a Reagan-Nixon library in Hell?
Becky; Where else?
Me; Good point. (pause) What does one study at 3AM at the Reagan-Nixon library.
Becky; Toast. That's all they have, no books or audio tapes, ironically enough, but lots of toast.
Me; Toast?
Becky; Toast.
Me; Weird. So, you are enjoying some toast and you think you might want to call me?
Becky; Hang on a sec, (to someone walking by) No, fuck you Hitler. That's right, I am talking to you. Pussy. (focused) OK, where were we?
Me; Was that really Hitler?
Becky; Yeah, and the fucker owes me, like 34 million dollars. Never wins a bet, never pays. I hate Hitler.
Me; Join the club.
Becky; Anyway, I was toasting, that's what we call it in hell, toasting at the library and all of a sudden, over the loud speaks, there is this...
Me; There are loud speakers in Hell?
Becky; Yes, and the worst part, well, I mean the part that really makes this hell? Ryan Seacrest does all the announcements. See, when we used to go out for Mexican food and we would joke about a condo in hell, let me tell you something, hell is not a lot of fun.
Me; That's probably why they call it hell.
Becky; Good point.
Me; So, continue, you were toasting when Ryan Seacrest had an announcement.
Becky; Well, as you can imagine, in Hell there are announcements all the time, lottery numbers, the score of the Cubs games and the odds of Sarah Palin being elected president.
Me; Jesus, you people in hell vote on whether Palin gets elected president of the United States?
Becky; No, of course not, not even Americans are stupid enough to do that. No, we vote on whether she will be president of hell. Right now, she is a shoe in.
Me; Brilliant.
Becky; Anyway, Seacrest is all serious and says that we should all be cleaned up, that a major celebrity is on the way. I get all excited, because you know as well as I do, I have always admired Joan Rivers work.
Me; Joan Rivers died?
Becky; Years ago.
Me; So why is she just now getting to hell?
Becky; Purgatory.
Me; My people do not believe in purgatory.
Becky; I thought your people did not believe in hell.
Me; That too. Then again, you are calling from hell, eh?
Becky; Wait a second, Seacrest is announcing something.
Me; By the way, how is Ryan Secrest in hell, he is not dead.
Becky; Dead inside, that's all that counts.
Me; I did not know that. So what's the announcement?
Becky; Hang on, let me ask someone. (to someone else). Hey Saddam, what's the news? Seacrest is gay? That's the announcement? Oh, no, you thought that was funny. Saddam, you kill me. What is it? Joan Rivers? Fine by me.
Me; So what's happening in hell?
Becky; Apparently Bin Laden is on his way.
Me; No way. Osama Bin Ladin? Osama Bin Ladin is on his way to hell?
Becky; No, Billy Bin Ladin, his pretty son. Osama is in purgatory.
Me; That's probably not so bad.
Becky; With Joan Rivers.
Me; Ouch.
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