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.
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?
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.
