So as many of you know, I work just off the National Mall in Washington DC. Many of you also know I take the Metro to work from New Carrollton or College Park to Smithsonian. And some of you text me and ask "So do you see any weird stuff on the Metro?" "Do you get mugged on the Metro?" and my personal favorite, "Do you remember when Dave left us standing on the Metro platform as he rolled away to 'The Rally to Restore Sanity'?"
The answer to the last question is yes, that was an unforgivable event. But not really. I also have never been mugged on the Metro, even though my Mom likes to remind me the last three stops my train makes (Cheverly, Landover, and New Carrollton) are the top three crime centers for the Metro. I don't know if that's true or not.
As for the first question, yes, I have seen some weird shit on the Metro and around the Metro stations so I'm sitting here at 3AM typing this post so I can share the stories with you. Yay!
Weird thing number one, codenamed "Fat Nikki Minaj". So I get on my train, sit down, and get out my iPod and put in the headphones (Whoah Black Betty, bam-a-lam, whhhhoah Black Betty) without looking up. I wish I hadn't looked up.
First off, I'll say Nikki Minaj is ugly as sin and really lacks talent. Bam, sorry if I just rocked your worlds, Minaj fans. "What did you see when you looked up, Bro?" I saw fat Nikki Minaj. It was a woman who must have weighed about two hundred and eighty pounds, taking up the whole seat, wearing about four gallons of make-up, a black tank top, and wait for it...what seemed to be leather pants, that were pink.
They say you can't look away from a train wreck, well you also can't look away from a woman the size of a VW Beetle dressed kinda like a hooker at 6AM. And myself and about ten of my fellow Orange-Liners just kept stealing glances at it, I wanted to take a picture, but instead I got out the old legal pad and wrote down "Write about Fat Nikki Minaj" and this blog post was born.
I saw a lady in nurses scrubs pick up someone's leftover "Washington Post" and look at it for a second before ripping a strip off, throwing it on the floor, looking at it there, then repeating the aforementioned activity till there was a pile of ripped up "Washington Post" on the floor.
I mean, what the hell. She either wanted to make a pinata when the train pulled into Federal Center SW and decided not too by the time she got off the train and New Carrollton, or she needed to pee and needed the newspaper for it's power to adsorb and maybe to wipe. I wish I had a clever nam for this one, but it literally just happened today (well, yesterday, seeing how it is now 3-07AM, I need to re-fill my prescription cuz apparently when I say "Sleep is overrated" I'm wrong. I have to be at work in like, four hours, time for another cup of coffee...).
Let's see what else...
There's always those kinda weird wet spots on the train at like, 5-50AM, I'm one hundred percent sure that those are from homeless people peeing. I once stepped out of my car in the morning, looked down, and saw a condom in my parking space. That was kinda weird, but I didn't really think twice about it. If I had gotten out of my car to no condom, then gotten back into my car and saw a condom there, then I'd have problem with that.
So I have only one other story that kinda trumps them all in my opinion. I was walking around the Mall one day after lunch and saw something that has forever changed my life.
If you've never been to the Mall, it's a gravel walkway on each side with benches facing the grass fields between, lined by museums, government offices, and monuments. Well, these benches attract all sorts of people. Tourists looking to rest wary feet and children, old couples looking to just sit around in white shoes, pants, and visors, government employees like myself enjoying lunch or light conversation, and finally, the homeless.
The homeless, or more specifically one of the homeless, let's call him "Tony Romo". I've seen "Tony Romo" around the area before, he's usually sitting around the Navy Memorial behind the Archives building, guarding his cart full of needles (there's no needles in his cart...that I can see), sleeping bags, tin foil, and American flags. There's a story behind those flags and I need to hear it in the worst way, but that's not the point.
So I saw "Tony Romo" sitting on a bench near Constitution Avenue throwing some random tooth-sized things at his feet, attracting pigeons who were eating whatever it was. I looked away thinking that he was just feeding pigeons, people feed pigeons, people usually don't do something crazy and drastic when you look back at them feeding pigeons.
"Tony Romo" did something crazy and drastic.
"Tony Romo" f*cking kicked a pigeon. Like, he pulled his leg back and swung like Adam Vinetari winning a Super Bowl. He drew this pigeons in with malicious intent, I was speechless. All the damn birds could do was scatter all about the place, all I could do is pick my jaw up off the ground and walk by like I didn't just see that happen. I wish I had more words or jokes to sprinkle on top of the ice cream sundae that is the story of pigeon kicking, but I think it sums itself up so damn well I don't want to taint it with more words.
So yeah, that's just the best of my Metro tales and DC tales. There will be more, and more other weird stories of stuff I've seen but this is all for now.
He. F*cking. Kicked. The. Pigeon.
Holy ball(s).
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Guess Who's Back?
Oh hey there, I didn't see you over these piles of paperwork (non-existent paperwork, unless all my legal pads and copies of "Sports Illustrated" from last year count as paperwork) and the fact that "Words With Friends" and Wordfeud have taken over my life (for the record, in between both those games my record is like, 0-400). This is random.
So yeah, the blogging took a back seat, or maybe I treated it like "Home Alone" and I'm just getting back home on the truck with John Candy. Truth be told, I was kind of in a mindset to just put the blog in the ground and kill it (in that order, I like to make sure you'll fit in the grave before I get out the old tarp and shovel). But I'm not going too, this blog keeps me writing and keeps you guys smiling and keeps some people wondering "What's wrong with this guy?"
There's nothing wrong with me, I'm just that awesome. And Remember how I told you I was gonna buy my kids gold plated monkeys? This blog needs to keep going if that's still going to happen, the Nigerian Prince that e-mailed me told me he has a few extras I can have if I send my social security number and credit card information. Done and done, Prince Amukamara. Haha, I think a few people will get that joke, and if you don't, Google him. He's a real person.
I guess the reason I'm back doing this today is that since Sunday, people have been busting on me to get back to doing this. Family, friends, "Bluth from DeLuth" (Shout out to my boy Bluth! Go Brewers! You loser. For those of you I haven't told, "Bluth" is a guy who found my blog somehow and started reading and talking to me. He's an awesome guy, loves beer, baseball, football, and his Golden Gophers. He's not really a loser either.), basically a lot of people have been getting on me about starting to post again, so here I am.
Also, during my extensive break (I dunno if it was extensive, it has felt like a really long time), I went back a re-read all the stuff from my writing portfolio. I've got old book reports from grade school, the "Butterfly Story" from my "ME Book" (4th grade, SPX, everyone who made one should go back and re-read what they wrote, it's hilarious stuff in mine) and one day I will post that story on here, maybe when I get home today. It's a beautiful tale.
Uh, what else was in there? A note that Anne and I kept passing back and forth to each other from 8th grade (also awesome stuff), a lot of stuff from my creative writing and poetry classes, and just pieces of novels and other books I've failed to finish.
But I realized something as I re-read all this stuff. I "grade" my own writing too hard and I'm far too hard on myself. Looking back, I had a tendency to over edit, rip out words that "weren't good enough" and damn was I stupid. The rough drafts were so much better than the final product.
I think the problem is in the back of my head, every great writer had some sort of problem, Hemingway, Joyce, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Capote, and Poe were all drunks or struggled with alcohol and depression and there's countless writers who thought that the things they wrote weren't up to snub with (fill in the blank) and just blew up what they wrote (I literally blow up bad blog posts, one brick of C4, boom, then I go buy a new computer). That's what went on in my head, and it turns out that's not true at all, I should just write what I want instead of writing something, hating it, and not letting it see the light of day.
I want to go down as a great writer. Maybe not in the same realm as Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Edgar Allen Poe, or Chiuna Achebe (maybe not a house hold name, but he's by far my favorite author and his book "Things Fall Apart" is still one of my favorites all thanks to Mr. Haller who taught my world literature class at DaMafUh) and the others I mentioned above, but that's okay. Those men are legends.
So I may never become a household name, write a novel, pen a memoir, collaborate on a script, but hell, compose a speech for a politician, but all that's just icing on the cake. I'd be thrilled writing a column for a newspaper (or should I just stop saying newspaper and say website? God I hate the fact that if I do become a columnist, I probably won't get to literally hold my first column in my hands, but that's an anger I'll let out another time. Wow, that was a slight off topic rant), editing some poor smhuck's drafts, or just writing this blog in my spare time. Which brings me to my next topic...
Women.
Not really, just wanted to throw an off speed pitch by ya there. "Cuz it's one, two three strikes you walk..."
What I really wanted to do with these closing statements is thank you, the readers. No joke, if I could, I would find every last one of the people who read this thing and hug you. You're allowing me to keep doing this, if no one read this, I'd probably be moving up to Buffalo right now. So thank you for the comments, ideas, feedback (which I guess is redundant cuz I already said comments, my blog, my rules), and for all the love.
So that's all I got, my grand return to the stage, and the marking of the new start of a lot of things in my life. Just remember I want some more guest posts, some more ideas, and any feelings you guys have on beards (hopefully that will be my next post) you can send to my inbox on Facebook. If you put it on my wall or comment it on a status, then everyone can see what the post will be about and it's totally worthless, it's like if I told you at the end of Fast Five, ********* gets arrested, ******* & **** have a baby, and **** ****** is naked. None of those are accurate, at least I think they're not, they're just there to prove a point.
I'm back.
So yeah, the blogging took a back seat, or maybe I treated it like "Home Alone" and I'm just getting back home on the truck with John Candy. Truth be told, I was kind of in a mindset to just put the blog in the ground and kill it (in that order, I like to make sure you'll fit in the grave before I get out the old tarp and shovel). But I'm not going too, this blog keeps me writing and keeps you guys smiling and keeps some people wondering "What's wrong with this guy?"
There's nothing wrong with me, I'm just that awesome. And Remember how I told you I was gonna buy my kids gold plated monkeys? This blog needs to keep going if that's still going to happen, the Nigerian Prince that e-mailed me told me he has a few extras I can have if I send my social security number and credit card information. Done and done, Prince Amukamara. Haha, I think a few people will get that joke, and if you don't, Google him. He's a real person.
I guess the reason I'm back doing this today is that since Sunday, people have been busting on me to get back to doing this. Family, friends, "Bluth from DeLuth" (Shout out to my boy Bluth! Go Brewers! You loser. For those of you I haven't told, "Bluth" is a guy who found my blog somehow and started reading and talking to me. He's an awesome guy, loves beer, baseball, football, and his Golden Gophers. He's not really a loser either.), basically a lot of people have been getting on me about starting to post again, so here I am.
Also, during my extensive break (I dunno if it was extensive, it has felt like a really long time), I went back a re-read all the stuff from my writing portfolio. I've got old book reports from grade school, the "Butterfly Story" from my "ME Book" (4th grade, SPX, everyone who made one should go back and re-read what they wrote, it's hilarious stuff in mine) and one day I will post that story on here, maybe when I get home today. It's a beautiful tale.
Uh, what else was in there? A note that Anne and I kept passing back and forth to each other from 8th grade (also awesome stuff), a lot of stuff from my creative writing and poetry classes, and just pieces of novels and other books I've failed to finish.
But I realized something as I re-read all this stuff. I "grade" my own writing too hard and I'm far too hard on myself. Looking back, I had a tendency to over edit, rip out words that "weren't good enough" and damn was I stupid. The rough drafts were so much better than the final product.
I think the problem is in the back of my head, every great writer had some sort of problem, Hemingway, Joyce, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Capote, and Poe were all drunks or struggled with alcohol and depression and there's countless writers who thought that the things they wrote weren't up to snub with (fill in the blank) and just blew up what they wrote (I literally blow up bad blog posts, one brick of C4, boom, then I go buy a new computer). That's what went on in my head, and it turns out that's not true at all, I should just write what I want instead of writing something, hating it, and not letting it see the light of day.
I want to go down as a great writer. Maybe not in the same realm as Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Edgar Allen Poe, or Chiuna Achebe (maybe not a house hold name, but he's by far my favorite author and his book "Things Fall Apart" is still one of my favorites all thanks to Mr. Haller who taught my world literature class at DaMafUh) and the others I mentioned above, but that's okay. Those men are legends.
So I may never become a household name, write a novel, pen a memoir, collaborate on a script, but hell, compose a speech for a politician, but all that's just icing on the cake. I'd be thrilled writing a column for a newspaper (or should I just stop saying newspaper and say website? God I hate the fact that if I do become a columnist, I probably won't get to literally hold my first column in my hands, but that's an anger I'll let out another time. Wow, that was a slight off topic rant), editing some poor smhuck's drafts, or just writing this blog in my spare time. Which brings me to my next topic...
Women.
Not really, just wanted to throw an off speed pitch by ya there. "Cuz it's one, two three strikes you walk..."
What I really wanted to do with these closing statements is thank you, the readers. No joke, if I could, I would find every last one of the people who read this thing and hug you. You're allowing me to keep doing this, if no one read this, I'd probably be moving up to Buffalo right now. So thank you for the comments, ideas, feedback (which I guess is redundant cuz I already said comments, my blog, my rules), and for all the love.
So that's all I got, my grand return to the stage, and the marking of the new start of a lot of things in my life. Just remember I want some more guest posts, some more ideas, and any feelings you guys have on beards (hopefully that will be my next post) you can send to my inbox on Facebook. If you put it on my wall or comment it on a status, then everyone can see what the post will be about and it's totally worthless, it's like if I told you at the end of Fast Five, ********* gets arrested, ******* & **** have a baby, and **** ****** is naked. None of those are accurate, at least I think they're not, they're just there to prove a point.
I'm back.
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