Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Moment to Moment

I'm a big fan of gadgets. Once a friend of mine was criticizing a guy who was over excited about their iphone and I had to stop her. "I LOVE iphones..." I kind-of blurted. She was really tearing into him too. I know that technology scares a lot of people. The truth is it scares me too but iphones are Awesome. (Note the capitalization.) There are some things that shouldn't be meddled with though. Like vacuum cleaners... My mother got one a few years ago. She called it Robby. "Robby the Rowbit" is how she said it. I found it a little unsettling. I went on-line and googled robots. Oh boy. There are dancing robots and there are robots that can talk... there are also robots fighting part of our war right now. There are also robots that make it harder for me to catch my train. I can't tell you how many times I was running for a train when I was home and I had to stop, put my money into one rowbit just so it'll gimme a card to slide into another rowbit. A time-wasting tag team.


"The Kings of Leon" kick a lot of ass. I never thought I'd say or type the second half of that last phrase but... now I've gone and done it. Never before have I really listened to any album and thought, "I feel like, somehow, they're talking about my life." These guys provoke that reaction. I feel silly for the thought because I'm not 17. (I've never felt 17. Not even when I was 17.) Eternally 12 but never 17. Maybe it's because they're a band that's also a family and my job is working with my brother. If you can call it work. It's more of a calling and we're pretty lazy. Little or no work. Hopefully, this is the year all of that changes. Perhaps it's just because they rock!

There's a place, up North, called The Lakes Region. Winnipesaukee to be exact. I'm pretty sure a piece of my heart is buried there. There are always things that'll flash through my mind, out of nowhere, that mean very little to me. Mostly it's stuff from movies, or something somebody said, or a short lyric from a song... and very rarely does a place pop into my head. However there is one, randomly, that seems to jump out of nowhere. The Lakes Region in New Hampshire. Places with names like Meredith, Laconia, Winnisquam, Wolfeboro, Moltonborough, and Gilford illicit a pang deep in my soul. I feel like I'm always heading back there. On a frozen night when it'll take forever for the heat to warm up the summer house or on a hot day with all of the car windows rolled down. In both instances I'm driving, smiling, and happy but the very thought of it fills me with longing. For good times gone and memories forgotten. Besides, the Kellerhaus probably wouldn't be open when I got there anyways.

Sometimes I wish I could appreciate "the moment" more. There was one moment I completely appreciated recently. My brother and I were hanging out at an infinitely cool place called The Farmer's Market in Los Angeles. It's right next to an outdoor mall that masquerades as cool but doesn't come close, called "The Grove." Every time I go to The Farmer's Market I wonder why I don't go there more. It's got all kinds of great stuff. Especially character. The other night we were planning on seeing "Defiance" at the movie theater next door, at "The Grove", had a a couple hours to kill, and Davey wanted a treat. So, we went to peruse the stores in The Market while there we ran across a full on Country ho-down. I also spotted a creperie which always seems to go unnoticed and I don't know if I'll let that happen any more... I had to order a waffle with strawberries on it. I'm pretty sure it's my new favorite food. It was amazing. So much so that while I was eating I said, loud enough for everyone to hear "this is the best decision I've made in a while!"

There are some moments, though, that you wish you weren't in. I don't know if this qualifies but my brother and I were riding our bikes home from a show the other night on Sunset Blvd. when we were stopped at a red light, not several blocks from our house. While stopped at the light a man was crossing the street with a bandage on his head. He was dressed like a normal person. (The inverse of this would be a maniac, a crazy, or a street person.) As he got closer and eventually passed right by us we could see that he was openly bleeding while he looked at us furtively. Moving steadily and at a good clip for someone with a major head injury. Now, at this point, you may ask, "but didn't you try to help him?" And my answer to you good sir/ good mam is that he was a serious looking individual and he didn't ask for any... We watched him move past and then my brother thought aloud, "How do we know he's not filming a movie down the street? This is Hollywood."

Good Day, Good Year good people,
-Chris

Saturday, January 3, 2009

A Short Winter Journey

The other night, as I made my way to the local liquor store, I found myself walking solo through the streets of the town I grew up in. Strolling through the tail end of a snowstorm, the streets near desolate. I bundled up before I left my house and just as I stepped out the door I put the buds of an iPod in my ears. I guess I always feel the need to supply a soundtrack whenever I step into the outside world. But when I got outside the wind was whipping the snow up and down the streets and through my wool jacket, as if it were a sieve, I could hear the quiet susurration of the snow and I was caught. Wrapped up in the cold snowy blanket of my town.

The streets were plowed but not as well as they should have been. It's a good thing I brought home boots. It's also a good thing that it was only one week from Christmas. I was covered in new, warm gear. (Even though I spend eleven of my months in Los Angeles. Don't think I don't appreciate it.) As I made my way up the hill next to my house I thought I'll turn the iPod on later. The world was so great, perfect in fact. Later, while recounting my journey to a friend, I thought about why I love the snow. Mainly it muffles the everyday sounds I hear. The mechanical, the urban, the modern noise sound pollution.

So many nights I'd be in bed at 51 Sullivan Street, wide awake and dreaming. Wondering if someday I'd end up in another bed -in a completely different place- an alternate reality in some other universe and I'd sit and listen through my walls and windows. Opening my ears* to the night sky. Almost always the first thing I'd hear would be 93. The major highway that's about a mile from where we live, heading to points North and South. I'd lay in bed and think about the truckers on the long haul or the motorcycle guy racing through traffic. Maybe I'd hear the docks and the banging of heavy equipment. The beep, beep of something backing up near the waterfront. Farther away, closer to my imagination, people yelling about important cargo. Maybe a plane inching across the Heavens, far above my bed.

On New Years Eve as I walked up the street, on a solo quest for spirits**, I made way through a quiet night with the whipping wind as my guide. The crunching of snow my only conversation... I never did turn on my iPod.

Love,
Chris




(*My heart breaks every time I look at my eyeglass prescription and see those negative sixes but if blind people's other senses are enhanced, then my negative six has to count for something right?)

(**I certainly did get really wrecked that night, though. Had a great time doing so. Just in case you're wondering.)

Sunday, December 7, 2008

The Great Charlestown Haircut Drought

I come from a place called Charlestown. By all counts an extremely special place. I tend to scribble a lot of nostalgia on these here pages and for good reason. The town of my youth and upbringing is extraordinary and I can't imagine having grown up anywhere else. Charlestown was and will always be a place full of amazing history. It's one square mile full of magic and character. Kind of like The Shire. (We even have an obelisk.)

As a child growing up in C-town, the pillar of our community was Jack the Barber. (You'll receive no argument from anyone who knew him.) Jack's Barbershop, on the corner of Elm and Bunker Hill streets, was the hub of my childhood Universe. Presently, the town Barber is an able hairsmythe (and good friend) Pat Owens at the Bunker hill Barbershop but -way back when- most everyone got their hair cut by Jack. Jack was the best.

I got my very first hair cut at Jacks place and I'm sure a lot of other kids did too. He was the kind of guy that would have you run across the street to the liquor store for a six pack, then spray you with his water bottle and tell you dirty jokes upon you r return. He was responsible for more nicknames than anyone else in our town. Titmouse, Pickle, Sausage, Buckethead, his brother Pailhead... All classics. Kids used to go to Jack's Shop and hang out even when they didn't need a haircut. Sometimes, Jack would kick people out for conflicts or slights. This happened to me once and it was devastating for more than one reason.

I used to hang out with a ridiculous crew. The Sawyers: Marc* and Chris. Marc and I were almost inseparable, our birthdays were a week apart, and we were best friends. Marc was an extremely intelligent kid who never applied himself at school but had a great depth of knowledge on any subject. He'd often get teased by older kids but, then again, so did I. We were both dismissed as "space shots" which is why we were close. Together, we were a couple of real misfits. Add Marc's brother Chris into the mix, who was two years older than us, and what you had was a real fine mess.

Marc and Chris would get into fights, with each other, everywhere we went and never cared about causing scenes. On a street out in the open, the boys and girls club, a doctors office, McDonalds, Papa Gino's, Pharmacity:

"OH Yeah? I'm telling Dad!"
"FUCK YOU! Tell Dad, See if I give a flying fuck!"

Or. Randomly. To no one in particular:
"Ya Mother got a dick on her elbow... AND SHE FUCKS HERSELF LIKE THIS!" (Flapping one arm like a crazy human bird.)

Shit like that. The Sawyer's Dad, incidentally, is a saint named Jacky**. An all around awesome guy, with a great sense of humor, who happens to be a funeral home director. A trip to the movies ofttimes would involve a trip downstairs to the mortuary to ask Jacky for money. He'd have to take a break from embalming a body to throw Marc a couple of dollars. Sleepovers always made me a little jittery.

This one time I went to get my ears lowered, I was probably around 10, and the Sawyers wanted to join me. I got along great with Jack the Barber but I had no idea he had a blood feud with the Sawyers. When I arrived, Jack said the Sawyers weren't allowed into his Shop.

"Walshy, What're ya doing hangin out with a couple of no-good-niks like them?"

Before I knew it they were all screaming at each other. With Jack saying, "Get outta here you little bastards!" Swiping at them with his broom.

And the Sawyers yelling, "Go Fuck Yourself, JACK! "FUCK YOU!" throwing trailer trash middle fingers.

"I oughta kick your ass, you little Motherfuckers! Walshy, you get outta here too for bringing those bastards into my place!"

I was mortified. I couldn't believe it. I loved Jack but they were my friends. We were all standing outside of Jack's shop and he shut both the metal gate and door in our faces and pulled all his shades down. Meanwhile, the Sawyers were still yelling, "FUCK YOU JACK THE BARBER!" in the middle of Bunker Hill Street for longer than necessary. After a moment, I asked them what I was gonna do about my haircut.

The Sawyers told me, "Don't worry about that! We'll take you somewhere where you can get a good haircut, don't you worry."

And they took me to Umberto's. Umberto was a greasy old Italian guy who barely spoke English. He'd say things like "I make you look like good American boy..." and when he was done cutting your hair he'd say "Booshey, Booshey, Booshey." He was a little creepy.

That day he gave me the second most tragic haircut I've ever received. The Sawyers insisted it looked great but my mom thought otherwise. She brought me back to Jack and to his credit, he fixed it for free.

Then, we were hit with one of the most significant disasters in Charlestown History, neck and neck with Lori-Ann's donut shop closing down, slightly worse than the Colonial troops losing The Battle of Bunker Hill.

Jack The Barber retired on September 13th, 1992, the year I was a freshman in High School, and his retirement was nothing less than catastrophic for the male hairstyles of Charlestown. When he finally called it quits, people didn't know what to do with themselves. It wouldn't be for another three years and three months that we'd have a competent Barber to call our own again. Pat Owens opened his shop, not a block away from Jack's old place, with Jack's blessing and Jack's license on December 15th, 1995. In those three years the male population of Charlestown was sent scrambling for solutions to what would become the worst haircut drought since the town was settled in 1629.

There are horror stories that people tell: about where they went to get their haircuts and the terrible experiences they had. My best friends, brothers, even my dad tells bad haircut stories from that time. It wasn't uncommon to hear,

"I went to Nick, Tony's nephew, in the Post Office building and he eviscerated my head..."

Things were getting so bad, people were consulting their Thesaurus for new adjectives to describe the atrocities committed on their noggins. I even went back to Umberto, at one point, and he made up for my last visit by bestowing on me the NUMBER ONE worst haircut I've ever received. He made me look like a Hitler Youth. Replete with an Adolf stash. And I hadn't even had facial hair when I walked in. I still can't figure out how that happened.

Some haircuts were bad and some were terrible but you can't always blame the Barber. I made some bad decisions myself. For example: the idea to get a shamrock, a V, and the word "IRISH" cut into my head for the first day of Freshman year in High School. Then there was "Fantastic Sams" which was probably the best of the worst but still far from decent. Their version of a Barber was a flamboyant guy, he looked like a poor man's Fabio, who cared more about socializing than cutting hair. One day I was heading down to "Fantastic Sams" and asked my dad for some money to get a cut. He said, "where ya goin?"

I said, "'Fantastic Sams'."

My dad paused a moment then said, "Oh, YEAH? When you see Sam. You tell him, I'm gonna kill him..."

And I nearly fell to the ground laughing because I knew that he was talking about the social flamboyant guy who had been ruining every one's hair. And my dad, without previously having mentioned it, had gotten a terrible cut from the guy. Luckily, Charlestown would be saved by a young upstart who had risen through the ranks to open his own Barbershop just in the nick of time. (Pardon the pun.)

Pat Owens had been cutting Townie hair since he was a kid. I got a haircut from him at the Bunker Hill Park when I was little. He'd bring his rechargeable clippers up and give everyone haircuts for free. I remember he had to stop in the middle of cutting my head to go and recharge the batteries. Now, he's got his own shop and he's even got some memorabilia from Jack's. He's got Jack's old sign and the poster of the monkey "taking a dump" that used to be in Jack's bathroom. Pat's shop has since moved to where Rosie's Convenience store used to be, across from the Training Field. (But that's another story for another time.) The reason I bring up his shop and the paraphernalia is because one of the last times I was in his place I saw something rather great.

It was a flyer for the Grand Re-opening of "Fantastic Sams" Pat had been given in his travels. On the flyer it said,

"Come to the Grand Re-opening of 'Fantastic Sams' and receive a FREE HAIRCUT!"

Underneath it Pat had written in magic marker: "And we'll fix it for just 15 dollars!"


-Chris

(* One of my favorite Marc stories involves one of the kids that Jack had given a nickname to and I mentioned in the story above: Pickle. Pickle was an older kid, my oldest brother's age, about six years older than us. About 17 when we were 11. One day Marc was walking up the stairs in-front of my house and about to enter when he spotted Pickle walking down the street. With the front door barely open I heard Marc yell, "Yo, Pickle... Dill out man!" To this day, one of the funniest things I've heard anyone say unprovoked.)
(** Jacky was also the first person I remember telling, before I reached double digits, that I was going to be a comedian when I grew up. He responded by saying, "That's Great.")

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Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Ballooning* (*A lesson in Humility)

Once, on my twelfth or thirteenth birthday I got one of the best presents I've ever received. For a long time I had expected something extraordinary. The knowledge of Kings? A visit from the Gods? Perhaps my coming of age would activate latent superpowers... no matter. Because birthdays, at that age, are always good. And this one was no different. It was one for the ages.

There wasn't a large group of kids like -my favorite visit to the movies -when I got my Mom to take us and The Sawyers to see Friday the 13th V. And there weren't a clown or a pink Gorilla like: never. As I recall it was just me by my lonesome, playing out behind our house, waiting for some cake. (Vanilla w/ vanilla. Oh, I can gobble a whole chocolate cake. Alone. With all of the lights out. But V and V is my favorite.)

So there I am playing my own game. Doing my own thing. Abiding. When my aunt arrives. "Christa-fa! Look what I braught YA!" And trailing behind, I'm sure were the rest of the Walls -my cousins- but all that I saw was the biggest, hugest, most large, blue balloon in the History of Balloons. So Big, in fact, that I was scared to hold it as I thought I would leave my deck. Come to think of it I don't know why that would be a fear for me. Her family carried it onto the deck and somehow we tethered it to a chair. Just after trying and failing to tie it down to a weighted HP Hood milk crate. I'm surprised that the chair didn't pull "a Danny." I was convinced that that balloon would pull my house into the sky, if the knot were tied right. It was Huge. You wouldn't believe me if I told ya.

There I was. Staring, eyes wide, mouth agape, and wondering how best to utilize this balloon. (See: above.) When the perfect thought hit me like an intercontinental thought missile launched from another brain. A thought so good it couldn't have come from my own head and yet there it was. "I'll go and get my friends." It was still early and I knew exactly where they'd be.

Without warning I jumped onto my huffy and sped off. Leaving tiny rubber tire marks all the way up Sullivan street. I flew two blocks and hung a right on Russell. The instant I turned the corner a kickball game came into view. The yelling intensified as a play reached it's peak. Kids were screaming "RUN, RUN... RUN!" and "THROW IT. GET HIM."

Teeth gritted, head bowed low, and bike swaying side to side I peddled as hard as possible to reach the game with a quickness. Time stood still. The game seemed forever out of my reach, as it remains to this day. I yelled, "Guys, you're never gonna believe this..." A head turned, then another, and another... everyone looked at me. One kid, Michael Lynch, happened to be tying his shoe as I yelled. When he looked up he must've had a greater field of vision than the rest of us because he pointed. Everyone else was facing my direction. And from my crouched position, on my bike -looking straight ahead at the neighborhood kids- I was the first to see his finger touch the sky.

Not yet at a complete stop, I followed Michaels index finger. My head turning back and up. With my mouth wide open I was hoping for a Wonkavator or a UFO or Cuckoo Man from "The Mighty Heroes." What I got instead was a GIANT. BLUE. BALLOON... the rest of the kids followed my gaze and started to let out exclamations, "LOOK at the size of that balloon... WHOA... WOW... HOLY SHIT." I bellowed, "My Balloon!" Letting it out as if the Balloon were a Blue Monster I had created, in my room, after years of studying alchemy and dark sciences forgotten for centuries.


I tried to tell them about my balloon and how it had been purchased for my birthday. How it was the reason I came to be standing in-front of them. They didn't believe me. After a little pleading that went nowhere they began to return to their game, not caring about the ownership of a balloon. Little or no sympathy. "Well, there it goes," was all that was said. "Happy Birthday." What else could they say? Other than, "that sucks man." I was being ridiculous in the first place. I came to brag and left a liar.

A good lesson to start my year: Losing a Balloon to the sky. That was my first real big dose of humility. And I needed it. Sooner or later (I like to think it was sooner) I came to a realization that I can't make a big deal over stuff like that. It's in a balloon's nature to fly. Sometimes, I'd have to let 'em go.

Every year on June 2nd I release a Big Blue Balloon into the atmosphere. At some point it'll pop and send my dreams into outer space. Eventually, those dreams'll come back for me in a rocketship.
-Doogie Howser M.D.

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Wednesday, October 1, 2008

New Beginnings

Got a haircut today. Before it happened...I came damn near close to a mullet. Almost there. Something inside of me said, "gotta go get haircut. Now." Then, as the woman with the scissors ruffled my hair, deciding an appropriate course of action, another voice -deeper down- said, "don't you let her doit!"

"Gaul-dang-it, don't you be a pussy! Not this time!"

This other voice likes to speak in exclamation. Round these parts we call him the Rebel. He protested the entire time. Although, he had more profound/ relevant arguments than he regularly does. Ya see, normally his arguments involve a Shlitzy lisp with arms flailing in wide arks. And usually, not always, he wants to prove to you why institutions like the Government "don't want anybody to have anyfun anymore." Or "they don't want me to get no pussy either..."

He's right. Most of the time. He lives on his terms. It's too bad I'm not him. I live in wonder at how it all "could be?" My imagination occupies the what-if dimension. A necessity for creativity. And today, as I was sitting in the mullet-butcher's chair, I spent most of my time listening instead of arguing.

Mullets equal character. A definition people enjoy reading over and over again. True comedians should be making statements: of silliness. People should always be laughing. The mullet wave has come and gone and right now it's on the uncool/ perfect side again. Two of your favorite people have mullets: Kurt Russell and Bruce Lee. You'd probably get more work... Also, guess what, David Lee Roth Pussy!

OK, OK. Point taken. But at the time there was nothing I could do. The lady was already well into taking down the "Fisher Price My First Mullet" atop my skull with a pleasurable look on her face. I couldn't tell her to stop. I'd have walked out of Floyd's Barbershop looking like a redneck version of the sophisticated man/ elegant lady.


I let her cut. And cut and cut. Now I have the same-old high and tight haircut that I've been getting since I was a kid. Back when I lived in Stephen King's story "The Body." Instead, I've decided to view this day as the first in the life of my new mullet. Bruce and Kurt had to start somewhere, right? I think so. Besides, the winter is coming up... and the rear part of my neck gets might-tee cold.
-Chris

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Thursday, September 11, 2008

The Unposted II

I've been having a tough time writing much of anything lately and all I'd really like to do is get through this block. So, as I've done once before, I'd like to post all of the blogs I've been trying to start over the last few weeks or months or so. Personally, I think most of these are lame but, in the very least, maybe I can convey where I was coming from or how frustrated I've been. I'm also hoping that one or two might inspire further introspection. There is one I'm definitely going to try to continue working on.

And. As before. Comments are in italics. Titles are in bold.

So, this one. I don't even know why I'm posting this one. No reason, really. Just wanted to show you how sometimes I have a hankering to write, then sit down, and nothing ah-t'all comes about. I guess I just moved on.

Animals (4/3/08)
Quick Post on driving across the country and looking for animals w/ pictures

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Well this started out with me sitting and staring at a computer for entirely to long. Then I figured I'd try to give a little writing exercise a try. It's kind of lame. I'm afraid that most of these posts are going to be kind of lame. Sorry. That's probably why they didn't get posted in the first place.

I promise at least a few passable lines somewhere in this doggerel. O.K. maybe a good word... One or two alright letters?

One good thing came of this, though. This post eventually turned into my story about rubbing Cologne on my genitals as a kid. Score one for the good guys. One of my major goals, in life, is a decent story, told decently. I'm usually able to manage one of the two.


No Title (6/7/08)
He sat poised at his lap-top, hunched over, wondering what to write and where to begin. A lifetime of laziness can't be cured in one evening, even if he knew where to start. Looking down, gaze drawn right, to that mysterious dry-spot on the inside thumb pad. What is that? Scratch it away. To no avail... wipe invisible/fake dust off of the keyboard for a second to gain time. What? What is he looking to gain? Time? For what? He's got all the time in the world but every time there's work that needs doin' he thinks to himself: Monday -or- after I get back. Well no more. Even if you've got nothing to write about... Write. Something.

One time when I was a kid I put Cologne all over my body. Every inch of it. Just after I had gotten out of the shower. Oooh! Eeeeh! Let's just say it ranks up there. As one of the dumbest and funniest things I've ever done.

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I really liked the idea of this one. Sometimes, I give up to easily. I love the imagery of L.A. as Castlevania II. And I really wish that I was playing that game right now...

No Title (6/11/08)
Somehow time slips by out here. In L.A. I don't know how it happens. I've heard people mention it and it is weird. Don't get me wrong. Time slips by Everywhere. But here, each day is the same. Like (and I don't often use similes but) a game of Castlevania II. Each day you walk around and talk to the local Transylvanians and ask them about strange things they may have seen or heard, maybe chat with them about the Count and the next thing you know you're outside and... IT IS DARK! Somehow time slips right on by.

Overall, I'm happy to be here. I forget that. I've had moments where it strikes me

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I think I lost my mind on this one. You know what I wish? I wish that when I lost my mind it were a lot funnier. All of the story stuff is true, though.

No Title (Also 6/11/08)
Sometimes, when you're blocked, it's best not to put words in a place where everyone can see. I say, fuck that. I live life on the edge and ya know what? I'm there right now. When you see me out on that edge and you say, "Hey man! Hey, Chris, Man... I don't think this is a good idea. Maybe we shouldn't be doin' this... I gotta baaaaaaaaddddd feelin' bout this one." Well, that's when I step over the edge. I live over. A couple times I died over... So, unless you're willing to follow me there, stop readin'.

What? You're gonna keep on readin', huh? Gonna follow me into the abyss? Ok, then but before we move forward you're going to need to know a couple things. 1. This ain't no James Cameroon's "abyss." Noooo No. Naw, this shit here is closer to the real "Cameroon."

We're out on the edge of Nigeria, man. 2. I suppose that just by reading, yer thinkin' I'm gonna take it easy on ya. Well I ain't. I ain't no chickenshit. And the fact that your still readin' says you ain't either. I like that... Shows me you got balls. So, at this point I hear you sayin' to yourself, "what're this guys qualifications?" Here's what they are: I crashed a car when I was only 3, I brained a teenager (who was attacking our house with eggs) with a D-cell battery in that same year, I once set fire- by accident- to a hillside when I was 12, and

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My bike is probably the number one topic that I want to write about. Maybe because I spend so much time on it. The only problem is that whenever I try to write about it the results are G.A.Y. gay.

Cutters (8/6/08)
I think I broke the land speed record tonight... on my bike. I've been riding my bike pretty steadily now since last October. I find that it's one of my favorite things to do. Let's reminisce (just for a second). Remember when we were kids and you got your bike? And a friend inevitably would ask, "ya wanna ride bikes?" Music to my ears. What a great idea. Now, I'm grown-up. And I live in a town, nay a city, NOOOOO nay, nay I say a County. A County called Los Angeles. One of the most widely spread (weird) cities on the planet. A place where everyone gets their car valeted and refuses to walk two blocks. Where you get a weird look for saying, "let's walk" and yet nobody looks cross-eyed at the guy in a fur hat on a 90 degree day. (I actually love fur hats. If my dog hadn't eaten my babushka I'd probably wear mine every day too.)

David and I moved to Los Angeles last fall and before we drove across the country, for the third time, we got a bike rack. The smartest idea my brother ever had. And once we moved into our new apartment and started going out to comedy shows on our bikes I found a wonderful thing happened. I loved riding my bike as much as, if not more, than going to the shows. (Except for when we got to perform.) When I left our apartment I'd say to myself, "AWESOME! I get to ride my bike now." And I'd feel the same thing when I left the show. I wasn't all crazy, sitting in a show, thinking about my bike the whole time but it was almost like I'd forgotten that this was my new transportation.

There have been some minor incidents. In November I got into a nasty wreck and smashed in muh face, cracked my front Beaver teeth, and still have some minor scars. I've also been hit, lightly, by a girl in an old volvo. She hit me with her front bumper, didn't look at me and kept driving... as though nothing happened. Yeah, just, "aaahhh, nothing... I didn't hit that guy." I got pissed, chased her to a light and said, out loud, "Fuck it." Then I got my rear wheel taken. It happens. I got a new one. It cost a lot of money.

Anyway, before I bore you completely all to hell let me

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This one I actually like. I was trying to write it as a short story and it'll eventually get finished. I also wanted to get it up as a tribute/ late extra wedding gift to my best friend Jamie Carroll. I was home for his wedding and we got to hang out a bunch but most of the time it was all drunken lunacy. I wanted to show him that my head can be full of tender thoughts to. To much? Whatever I like the topic... and I never quite got to it in this small piece. But it will get finished. Oh, It will get finished.

Father Coyne (Also 8/6/08)
St. Catherine of Siena Church was built in the late Eighteen Eighties. I imagine it's as beautiful today is it was when it was first erected. The Ceiling seems to reach up to Heaven, with graceful arcs crossing in symmetrical patterns. The gaze is immediately drawn skyward to God's Ceiling. It was a hot day and the church itself was no reprieve. (Have a piece in here about never being allowed to look up in Church, as a kid. Also add how I always look up in Churches now.)
Outside, as we were all exchanging pleasantries, old friends got reacquainted and new faces beamed in the hot sun. It's not often you gather for a best friend's wedding or even a rehearsal. nobody wants to screw up that "special day." Not on purpose anyway. Suffice to say everyone was looking their best in, not exactly keep-me-cool gear. As people were milling about on the sidewalk -waiting for a hunchback with a bottle opener to unlock the giant doors and let us into God's house- I glanced over and saw Father Coyne. Wow. It had been a long time since I had seen Father Coyne.
On one of the last occasions of seeing him my best friend Jamie's father, Jimmy, pantsed me at the front of a fishing boat as I was waving to another boat passing by. I was standing on a bench at the bow waving, smilingly when Jimmy decided he'd pull my pants down. Little did he know I was free-balling

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This one just seemed like bragging to me. I've never had a tan and I actually got one for a couple of days there in late August (what would be a couple of weeks ago.) I got excited. It was pretty nice. And it was gone in a day.

I can't believe it either... (8/26/08)
I've been swimming a couple of times a week for about a month now. Other than a scary little mole that I have on my back I've been experimenting with not wearing any sunblock. Dangerous. I know. I was once on a cruise ship, making my way to the pool with my shirt off, when I was stopped randomly by a woman who said, "for the love of God please tell me you have sunblock on..." What a horrible thing to say to a person. Of course I was wearing sunblock.

Recently, I've been heading down to the pool. It's been going really well, since you've asked. For some reason I've decided to see what happens without the block. And damned if I didn't go and get myself a tan. All over my back. Sure, there are a lot of freckles but for all of those people who gave me grief over the years: my back is giving you double white trash middle fingers right now... It's tan for me. Extremely tan for me. I do believe that's all you need to know.

-Chris

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Reminiscing about August. This was going to be completely sappy and a little overboard about how much I miss home and the feelings that I get at the end of August. Even though I live in a land where the weather is always the same and nothing ever seems to change I was still getting that old feeling that something different is in the air. Like Barack Obama. Coincidentally, I'd like to write a blog about how stupid you are if you don't vote for him. That'll probably end up in The Unposted III. I don't do politics well.

August (8/27/08)
There's always been something special about this month. Particularly at the end of the month. You can feel it. The air feels different. There's always something in the bittersweet embrace of the rapidly diminishing heat

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Are you kidding me?

Ain't No Stopping (9/6/08)
This is what I've been up to...

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I'm still trying to get over that last one. Whew! Huh! Am I right? I mean, am I right? Unbelievable. Anyway, This is the post I tried to write tonight. Eh! I just want to get back into form. I've learned in the last couple of months that you can do almost anything (well as long as anything is: running, swimming, and biking long distances) if you start slowly.

There was also a bunch of other stuff that I erased. For the most part it was about Marriage (my brother's), getting passed at The Comedy Store (three Cheers), and what else is happening in the World of The Walsh Boys. Hopefully, this'll help me gain steam.


News (Tonight)
OK. So, I haven't put finger to keypad in a while and it's killing me. I have tried to write, it's just been a chore... This may be a fight but let's both see it through. (Although, I do hope there is more than one person reading.) Where to begin?

First off, I'm competing in a triathlon in almost a week and hope that I'm amply prepared. I get to the pool once or twice a week and I'm starting to become a decent swimmer. Some mornings, I ride my bike eleven miles to work. I make good time by competing with cars and drafting buses. If it weren't for red lights I'd make great time but as it is the count stands at about forty seven minutes. I sleep with my helmet on.

-Chris

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Eggs

Two nights ago both myself and James Patterson were egged, respectively. I was coming out of the Hollywood Improv after a Great & Secret Show meeting and as I was strolling through a crowd of people I felt something hit my rib-cage. I turned, looked around at the people standing outside, recognized a comedian I love (Patrice O'neil), and everyone had a look on their faces that said, "what the fuck was that?" As I looked down at my shirt I notice- EGG!

Patrice then said, "That sucks... but it's about time WE caught a break..." (In reference to the majority of black comedians hanging around outside for the Bernie Mack Tribute Show.) and I cut him off with "I know, it must be Bernie Mack smiling down from Heaven, right?"

I then rode home, with egg all over me, thinking "what goes around comes around" because I have thrown a few eggs in my time. I just can't believe the arm on that assassin. 9 times out of 10 I never would've landed that shot. As I was traveling I was anticipating telling my roommate, James, about the incident even though he had left right before me. But when we ran into each other he said, "you aren't going to believe what just happened to me."

What are the chances they got us both?

And I said, "HOLY SHIT you too?" He then said, "I was riding my bike and I got nailed by and egg!" And with a huge smile on his face said, "and it was a good shot too."

The funny thing is that in each instance both of us had thought we'd been shot. With a bullet. Thank God that wasn't the case... It sucks to get hit by an egg but at least we appreciate good hijinx and someone who's a dead-eye with an egg.
-Chris

P.S. A full coverage Bigfoot blog is on it's way. I'm just waiting to see what happens at the press conference on Friday. This could change everything...