Rain Type Shit Whatever

At 9:09 AM I picked up an over-sized box on Federal Street and balanced it on my handlebars in order to get it to City Square in Charlestown before 9:30. From there I rode down Main Street to Austin Street and over the bridge into Cambridge for a pick-up at the Middlesex Registry to be dropped at a private residence by Beacon Hill. Riding a brakeless setup on 23 centimeter tires in torrential rain without a helmet could be considered a form of suicide, but relying solely on your intuition, skill, and timeliness is an overwhelming thrill. I bought a helmet. And I'm installing a brake. Also considering a fat suit.



That's my war pony hangin' in Provincetown with his bike bro not a big deal.

The nature of the courier business is as dangerous as your willing to make it. I've seen kids bombing down Beacon Hill through two red lights with no interruption to the pedal rotation. Granted, the alertness and skill of any given courier only goes so far due to the sudden change in conditions that are out of your control, but steering clear of absurdly high risk situations is going to keep you out of serious trouble in the long run. All it takes is for some douche in a 1994 Bronco to throw a half full Snapple at your torso and you wind up in the hospital. It's a standard rule of thumb not to ride near douches.

At 3:50 I got "kudos" from a Berklee student for "staying still" at a red light.

At some time around 4:10 I was handed a dollar in Kenmore while sitting with a homeless man drinking a Slurpee. An Asian bro handed each of us a dollar. The homeless chiller felt entitled to my given dollar. I agreed and kept the dollar.

My feet haven't been dry since Sunday.

Boston is Still Boston; Allston, Jamaica Plain, Downtown Edition

Upon moving back to Boston town, I made an impulse decision to move into an apartment in Jamaica Plain over by the Forrest Hills train station. One grimy metal kid and a lesbian couple (a farmer and a grad student) in the process of splitting up. It wasn't an ideal setting to move into, but I planned on sharing the bedroom with my girlfriend and, rightfully so, no one wants that.

Fast forward a month or two later and the lesbians move to a farm and a sociopath teeny bopper (bopper is not picked up by spell check and although that doesn't surprise me, I would expect the word to pass through the screening without a red line of scrutiny. I'm fine with it.) maniac plotting to take my girlfriend's life. The street punk smokes crack regularly. In some backward way I commend him for functioning while regularly smoking crack cocaine. I have no experience with this type of drug, but based on various drug rehab television shows, it mustn't be an easy feat if the singer from Crazytown can't handle it.



Needless to say, we got out of dodge and moved into a friend's place in Allston. In the meantime, my only source of income other than poker was removed from my life and in a wacky way. I had been working as a bouncer (the third smallest of the staff) at a relatively low key bar downtown. Cliffnotes: I knocked a guy unconscious for punching a girl and it was all on camera. Also, I was off the clock. I spent an hour or two after my firing pissing and moaning about how bullshit it was. I now understand why someone with a vested interest in the bar and not some random employee would take such action. Working in a bar is wildly unhealthy, especially taking into consideration having to ride through the hood at 3 A.M on my war pony. That's me on the left.




It was an interest dynamic to work in such an aggressive setting. Due to my initial stereotyping of all fellow employees, I wasn't expecting to leave there with anything gained. Truth be told, there are actually a handful of decent people in the bar industry. For the most part, the majority force me to think less of the human race as a whole.

I'm back on the grind in a major way. My action has decreased dramatically on Full Tilt (FTP) and Cake. I spend 90% of my time on various social networking sites and perfecting my Tetris game while waiting for someone to play against me.

This is my new bicycle. We are being hyper-not-that-irregular chiller bros on the pavement because that's what's hot.



Would you like to know what is also legitimate in a hyper-modern culturally relevant way?



For all of this, you are welcome.

My Foot is Resting on the Gas

I've been working diligently on short stories during some of my free time. I don't prefer to write about my life, myself, or my loved ones on the Internet anymore. There's nothing appealing about it to me at the current moment. I write on good old paper with a Bic pen. It's texturally pleasing.

I live in Massachusetts again for those who do not know. I'm playing poker at a leisurely pace and coaching only those that I feel can gain the most from me specifically.

Jamaica Plain is a beautiful part of the city.

I have a part time job for the first time in a long while. I'm a doorman at a downtown bar and I don't fit in very well, but I don't mind it one bit. The majority of my co-workers are first level thinkers with testosterone spewing in every direction. There are a few that I like, but most of them think that I'm gay, which is a deal-breaker for most hapless Boston natives. I don't mind. It shows Uncle Sam that I'm paying taxes.

Oh yeah. I got in trouble for not declaring my winnings in regard to poker. I don't know how serious my situation is. I chose to ignore it for the time being.

I live with my girlfriend Mandy who I met in San Francisco.

My primary means of transportation is my bicycle. Riding a bicycle during winter months in Boston is synonymous (for most people) with having a DUI or being certifiably insane. Riding is crack to me.

I gave up meat on 1/1/10.

I have recently read David Foster Wallace's "Consider the Lobster," Don Delillo's "White Noise," and Lethem's "Chronic City." The first two are highly recommended.

Although it is subject to change, loose plans to move to Portland, OR are currently in the works for September of this year. Of course this is contingent on many things out of my control but I'm keeping my fingers firmly crossed.

Much west coast love to those that have been a part of me since moving to San Francisco. I love it here. I'm just not ready to be here yet.

Love,
Richard

I could happily live inside a room without a window.

Very rarely can I use the word pleased to accurately described my mood. Right now is one of those times.

Why do I feel the sudden obligation to post brief, dumb blog posts?

I had a dream that I walked into an unlocked bathroom occupied by Lou Dobbs. He yelled "Occupado!" several times as I exited. Later, we were smoking cigarettes outside of a bar as he asked in a feminine, mocking tone, "What do you want, babe?" after a contemplative inhale of smoke.

Using Others to Overcome Mental Obstacles; Human Ornaments; Ordinary?

In the silence, it became so very clear,
That you had long ago disappeared.
I cursed myself for being surprised,
That this didn't play like it did in my mind.

All the way from San Francisco,
As I chased the end of your road.
Because I've still got miles to go.

I want to know my fate,
If I'll keep up this way.
It's hard to want to stay away.

The human heart is such poor soil.

RE: My Life and My Self and Why They Are Not Linear

I wear a blindfold over my eyes and walk blindly toward whoever is willing to react to my stumbling and bumping into whatever feelings, body parts, walls, beds, and insecurities that my impetuous actions lead me toward. My heart is hard and tired and I'm not unhappy about that. I'm actually excited for the first time in a long while.

Wamp Wamp, What it Do (What it Do)

Maintaining an undefined status when labeling a misaligned early 20's romantic/sexual arrangement seems suitable for those that are immeasurably sophisticated or for those that view this (or any) characteristic as something to be achieved. Living in a city where the average male displays designer eye-wear with transition lenses atop a spray tanned face with a carefully coordinated collared shirt of an astronomical thread count and where females often make it abundantly clear (and sometimes as a mother-daughter duo) that our society is tinkering on the edge of distinctly pornographic norms, I feel misplaced. Although I laughably consider myself somewhat of a minimalist (my Ipod does not make phone calls or surf the web and I ride a bicycle), I feel a magnet-like pull toward full blown complexity. I need food and water. Shelter's nice.

However, my recent discovery is that I'm primitively drawn toward consistent affection, likely stemming from an unshakable fear of spending my mid-twenties to early-thirties kept up in some one bedroom apartment with a wildly filial relationship with two small dogs, an exhausted television, and no warm body to lay against while reading a beat generation novel, complain to about the petty dilemmas that come and go in a day, have sex with, or eat Thai food with while watching Saturday Night Live reruns, which I guess nullifies the "Live" portion of the title. It's still the name of the fucking show. Please. Relax.

With that said, my irregular form of communicating in a serious manner keeps this new need (food, water, shelter, affection, lemonade) unstable and, often times, erratic. I'm not sure why I frantically throw up a wall between how I am perceived by others (outside of the wall) and how I actually feel (behind the wall). I don't like to have all of my cards laying out across the table, leaving me in a position to be (justly) scrutinized and critiqued about my decisions/behavior. It must partially be the aforementioned and partially be that whenever I'm dropped into a meaningful and important conversation/social setting, I envision all parties involved as supporting roles (including myself) in "Days of Our Lives" with corny lines displayed on the cue cards, leaving me to refuse to actually cite them by filling in the dead air with goofy sarcasm played on the magnitude of the should-be situation. It doesn't mean that I'm emotionless. Heller Keller had emotions. They've done studies.

Spite Smiling

When I was twelve years old, my grandmother told me what she knew about the afterlife. According to an irritatingly devout Catholic, I will be shown to the pearly white gates with an empty blank scroll of paper and a pen. Neither the brand of the paper nor the pen is known, as she made clear, but both will be present on a table by the gate. There will be a man by the gate asking, "So how was life?" which, when spoken, will sound similar to the common greeting, "So how's life?" If presented with this situation today, I would respond as if it were a ten day trip to a European country, strictly for comedic value since I have nothing else to offer up to this point.

"It's a pretty nice place. I was sick through part of it, but the food was good and the people were nice!"

Anyway, when I was twelve years old I already knew that I fucked myself out of an afterlife. My decision to consistently steal money from my parents' change jar to buy baseball cards and slush puppies nullified my decision to help my overweight health teacher off the ground after a lengthy tumble down a flight of stairs. I didn't even laugh, but it didn't matter. I was certain of it.

Day after day, I would keep a dollar from my lunch money and run it through the school vending machine in order to acquire change. I'd dump a hand full of assorted change back into the jar at the end of the week. I tried to keep the ratio of pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters consistent with how I had originally found it. There was no actual formula to follow, but I knew that there were hardly any quarters, a ton of nickels and dimes, and a fair amount of pennies.

Later.

PS.
To whomever this may concern,
My recent release of repressed feelings,
Largely due to a 9 day sober streak,
(Hi-five),
Has vented out of my mouth and out of my fingers and into the ears and eyes of those willing to give blunt and honest advice.
Thank you infinitely for that.
Women, high blood pressure (likely a direct correlation), money wars, flat tires, Fat Tire, lies, bugs, Boston, existenialism, caffeine,
In no specific order,
Actually maybe,
Have worn me down.
Thanks for caring.

Gonna be hecka bummed out for a while.

Phil

Today, a higher force was clearly working it's magic. I can honestly say that I had heard a handful of Phil Collins songs in malls, fabric stores and in a car driving by. The ones that are really fucking catchy and stay with you for weeks on end like Against All Odds and You Can't Hurry Love. For a second, I thought he may have died since the last time I recall his happening was after Michael Jackson's death.

I was humming it at the urinal of a Thai restaurant. I was whistling it walking down Powell St. I was subtly singing it to myself at the book store. It was an eerie day. The type of day that you propose to a girlfriend or commit suicide or subscribe to a magazine you know you'll never read.

There are days when I'd like nothing else but to disappear to some place I've never been for an indefinite amount of time in order to gather a better understanding of the decisions I'm making. Today is definitely one of those days.

My friend from home said that looking at every possible situation in a transient light is depressingly practical.

I wish it were colder.

Weekend (v.v.v.0)

I feel like I'm traveling through memories and revisiting points in my life that have already happened.

I have traveled up and down route 1 over 14 times since I've been home.

So much has changed since leaving here and it's fun to hear about and spend time with people that were once a giant part of me.

I love my friends and family.

If you owe me ten dollars, you ain't givin' me nine.

Like Lines

Live poker in the state of California is unlike anything I have ever seen. I was grinding (playing) while eating a mediocre breakfast plate consisting of two cold sausage links, two pancakes, an orange, and ham when an Asian gentleman around my age tapped me on the shoulder and tugged on the cord to my noise canceling headphones. I was playing 9/18 with him earlier in the night, the highest game that was running through the night at Lucky Chances in Colma, CA, where the dead outnumber the living 1,000:1.

Asian Bro: "Hey man. I just lost $550 playing blackjack. I feel awful."
Richard: "That sucks man. Table games are evil."
Asian Bro: "Do you play here often? Is there any way you can let me borrow a hundred bucks? I can leave you my license if you want it."
Richard: "This is my first and last time here. Sorry."
Asian Bro: "Yeah, I'm probably better off."
Richard: "Probably."

It's comforting to know that you are the most skilled player in the entire room. If the rake wasn't astronomical and if the dealers weren't on par with the worst I've ever seen, I'd try to grind it out there fairly often if they were to offer a higher game.

There was one fairly interesting hand that I was berated for. It was a standard hand on my end, but the shit that went on from other players was mind blowing. It was 6 handed and I open in the cutoff with Q9sd. Button, SB, and BB all call. Flop comes Jd Td 5s giving me license to mash on my opponenets, heck of. I continuation bet, button calls, SB raises, BB folds, I announce that I would like to enter more of my money into the pot, button calls, SB calls. Turn comes the 8 of spades and SB elects to donk where I then raise and the button 3 bets. Sb calls. I cap. All call. The river comes a king of clubs. SB donks again, I raise, both players call.

The button shows Jc9c and SB shows KhJh. My mind exploded.

Sorry for the gibberish to any non-poker playing chillers that may read this.

When I'm Asked if I'm Okay, I Don't Know What to Say

I find it pathetic that something as simple and casual as a text message can aggravate buried feelings so severely that I dwell on memories (good, bad, awkward, fulfilling, whatever) for an entire day while staring into my phone.

I had a friend back home who was the most caring and purely beautiful person I have ever met. I hear from her now and then, but she serves as a constant reminder of my flaws and mistakes.

It kills me that I'm incapable of communicating with the people I care for. I find it to be a steady issue.

I'm going to see Bon Iver perform with Megafaun tonight. I've never been to a show by myself before.

I wish I was 18 again.

After free-writing 20+ pages in a Mead notebook, I've come to the realization that I have many potentially interesting things to write about. That excites me.

"I was teased by your blouse.
Spit out by your mouth."

I don't mean to sound self-deprecating in any way. I'm not depressed. I'm not anything. I just float. I'm happier than I've been in the past few months but I wouldn't say that I'm ecstatic for the future. I have no idea where I'll be in three months and that leaves me with a strong sense of unease.

To my mother and my brother(assuming that there's a slight possibility of you reading this), I love you both dearly and the thought of seeing you within a month makes any day much easier.

PDX Take 2

Moments after my plane lands in Portland, Oregon (at around 8:20PM on Thursday) I get word that I should hustle down to a ritzy downtown bar. A friend of a friend had just finished a book reading on the first stop of his book tour and was invited by Phil Knight for drinks and appetizers paid for by the child labor employer/CEO of the Nike Corporation.

I recall having fine whiskey swishing around in my mouth as I ordered another drink from the waiter.

My favorite moment of the entire trip was watching Noah Mendel stick his entire fist in his mouth. About 25 feet beyond him was Phil Knight, a billionaire, sipping gazpacho. Both were in my vision.

What a lovely trip.

Sometimes, when sailors are sailing, they think twice about where they're anchoring in. I think I could make better use of my time on land. I'll drink less because God knows I could use a warm kiss instead of a cold goodbye.

I'm writing to folks back home to tell them, "Hey, I'm doing alright."

I wrote out this deliberately vague late night post and spent close to 15 minutes laughing at how incoherent and hilariously lame/corny/confusing it is. Instead, this post will serve as a reminder for my time spent feeling like I should never write anything on the internet again.

Cheers.

Whatever (Folk Song in See What I Mean Bros?)

Taking an analytical approach to the "play count" on my iTunes library, I have noticed some distinct trends and have since developed some theories.

While browsing through my library, I noticed that Edan and El-P, both indie hip hop artists, get more play than they probably should because I hardly ever listen to them on my iPod.

The artist directly after El-P (in alphabetical order) is Elliott Smith. Some of you know this about me. Some of you don't. Never in my life have I been able to listen to one Elliott Smith song and move onto something else. Playing one song of his usually expands into a week (or more) of non-stop "XO," "Either/Or" and "Figure 8" play and, as a result, I become considerably less happy.

I compare my Elliott Smith problem to a section in the beginning of "Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace. One of the characters cannot smoke weed casually and, instead, needs to shut off to the entire outside world in order to use it. He turns his answering machine off, stocks his cabinets and fridge with snacks and locks his door, segregating himself from any social contact. Pretty close to exactly what an Elliott Smith bender is like for me, minus the snacks.

Once I see El-P appear on my library list, I subconsciously choose to listen to "I'll Sleep When You're Dead" instead of testing my self discipline (e.g. passing through Elliott Smith's discography without giving it a listen). Ignoring Elliott is difficult when his printed name is staring you in the face. That and the week of my life that I'd need to devote to him helps with ignoring the temptation, but I usually succumb to his frail voice.

If I re-read this for errors, I'm going to want to delete it.

All Aboard

I walked outside of Fuse, a bar in North Beach, to look for a purse that was stolen off the back of my friend Mandy's chair. I figured that it was possible for someone to take the wallet out and ditch the bag. A 15-20 person brawl was underway in front of a club across the street. As it ended, men were tearing off their shirts and flexing their muscles. I wondered what the fight was about. There was no lack of passion.

The bag wasn't found. Everyone at the bar seemed to know each other, since it was a vampire themed party and that type of thing tends to draw a similar crowd each time a bar decides to host bands such as Vagabondage and Vagiant. It doesn't draw a threatening "I'm going to come to steal a purse" type of crowd.

The music was horrible.

2 abandoned PBRs later, I find myself in the most fascinating social realm, the late night San Francisco bus. I could write a book on my interactions while riding this bus. My favorite conversation from last night's ride was the cross-bus yelling type, a rarity. A SF via Memphis transplant announces to me that everyone on the bus is crazy and that he has "yellow fever," a term that I later learn to mean an attraction to Asian women.

Like any beautiful, invigorating moment, the bus ride ended. I stayed up until 6:00AM watching Sportscenter and infomercials while drinking into an oblivion.

I needed a pleasant night.

On Being Blindsided

Bon Iver is playing on the 22nd. I'm looking forward to it.

After aimlessly riding my bicycle through the thick mist after class, I found myself sitting at a booth in a Johnny Rockets alone. It was a little after ten o'clock and I had spent twenty minutes sitting between my bike and the curb staring at the bright neon sign before walking in.

Since all Johnny Rockets restaurants look exactly the same, the storefront reminded me of times I'd spent at them in the past. Every year, my mother and father would drag my brother and I up route 128 to the North Shore Mall in Peabody, MA to buy us new clothes for the upcoming school year. The drive felt like hours even though it never took longer than twenty minutes.

When we finally arrived at some department store, my mother would have about a half hour of our undivided attention before my brother and I would mess around in an uncontrollable manner, obviously frustrating the living shit out of our mother. Once our attention spans were shot, my father would take us to Johnny Rockets as my mother would shop around on her own.

Every hour or so, the staff would dance around to some 50's song in a half-assed manner as the patrons would look on, eating their one-cut-above-fast-food burgers and thick shakes. I loved the atmosphere of the place. It was my favorite restaurant when I was younger, probably because of the time I was able to spend there with my dad and brother.

As I got older, I worked at the mall briefly and got fired for not being enthusiastic enough. In the short time that I was employed here I met a girlfriend of four years. We'd spend time at the Johnny Rockets, talking about our petty family/friend issues. The conversations I had with her there eventually lead me to fall in love.

Tonight, the booth I decided to sit in was suited to fit five people comfortably. It was difficult not to imagine those that I love sitting around me: my little brother laughing uncontrollably as my father would make goofy faces at us or looking across the table at a beautiful girl smiling and eager to listen or talk about anything at all.

It was even more difficult to realize that those days are gone.