Going For A Walk

The other dope boy wrote a little over a week ago rather poetically about his upcoming spring break trip to Arizona.  I have been a poor partner and just read the post today.  The post is emotional, beautiful, and thought-provoking.  Reading it made me want to unplug completely (ironic as I’m writing this), stir an alcoholic beverage with my cell phone (did that in college — the phone breaks), and WALK (more on this in a second) immediately out of my office into the sun.  But, all of that being said, I do want to take issue with one part of Spring Break 2012:  the “hiking.”

Spring break 2012!!

Recently, I was explaining to a group of 20-somethings why the 30s are so much better than the previous decade.  They were skeptical.  The full exposition is for a later post, but here’s a teaser: one reason that your 30s are so much better than your 20s is that you have the money to do more things that you want, like take sweet vacations.  And speaking of sweet vacations, I’ve been spending a lot of time these days thinking about my sweet “Spring Break” plans.  I’m not headed to Panama City to get wasted with some 20 year olds.  It’s not that kind of spring break (although I may or may not have just added that to my bucket list).  Instead, I’m taking advantage of a window of opportunity in mid-April and heading to Arizona for a 4-day solo jaunt in Saguaro National Park.

Time Capsule: 1998, Part 2

A few weeks ago, while cleaning in my apartment, I uncovered a treasure trove of things from high school and college.  You may have read the first Time Capsule installment, which included an amazing set of lyrics written by Jules Winfield.  Yes.  Lyrics.

Here’s one by yours truly.  It’s indescribable, written (apparently) after an epic night out in New York City.

“Wait”

Waiting sucks because I’m druunk.
Vomit sleepers?  I don’t know, but the bottom
feed [indistinguishable] what substitutes
[indistinguishable]
for that which comes from eternity.

I was forced to enjoy a bowl of healthy snacks

This has been an interesting week of highs and lows.  Less than an hour after finishing two fantastic performances of a multimedia program for 3-5 year old children, I sliced my head on a low-hanging duct and spent the rest of the day at urgent care, getting 7 staples in my scalp.

I was lucky to receive great care–starting with help from colleagues who were with me at the time of the accident (my employee sat with me in the waiting room at the doctor’s office), progressing to the free healthy snacks at the urgent care office and a bowl full of birth control pills in a rainbow of bright colors like Skittles.  Wait, what?  Obama forced me to use contraception?!?

Time Capsule: 1998*

A few weeks ago, I got a jump on spring cleaning and uncovered a treasure trove of things from high school and college, including song lyrics that the other dope boy and I wrote during the summer of 1998. 

I’m not sure what our inspiration was (though I’m sure it involved some dranks), but I AM sure they will inspire you in one way or another. Unfortunately for you, we didn’t actually write more than the lyrics.

This one is untitled. If I could title it now, it would be called “We Be Pimpin”.  I’m pretty sure it was written by Jules Winfield.

Finger lickin, tasty chicken,
Gin and juice sippin while my mom’s trippin on the

The Pink Bicycle Has No Seat

No Seat Here

When the other dope boy and I were in high school, we did not like poseUrs (besides the intelligensia — anyone know you spell poser like that?).  We didn’t have any more sense of ourselves than anyone else, but we didn’t pretend to.  It sure seemed like everyone else was pretending, and still does.  To reinforce our distaste for the frauds, we made up a joke to separate the poseUrs from the reals.  It went something like this, “A guy needs to go the pharmacy, but can only find a pink bicycle with no seat.  He rides the pink bicycle with no seat to the pharmacy, and the pharmacist says, ‘Sir, may I help you?’  and the guys says, ‘no thanks, I’ve already been helped.'”  Then we would laugh hysterically, and the poseUrs would laugh with us.  The reals would say, “I have no idea what that joke means, and I don’t get it.”  We would push the reals even further by mocking them, accusing them of not “getting it.”  Eventually, they’d be brought in on the truth.  So, in honor of the pink bicycle joke, below is a list of things that don’t make sense to me, but others pretend to like.