I'm riding the rickshaw once again this summer around Wrigley Field and other Chicago locations as my summer job. Some of you may recall that last summer I had some interesting stories (see Tales from the Rickshaw posts).
Let's see what happened today . . .
1. A guy showed me his ID, and his name was actually Rick Shaw.
2. I learned three things that I need to buy tomorrow: another bike lock, an allen wrench set, and a hand pump.
3. The damn firehouse guys are stingy with turning the water on, so I was wicked dehydrated out there. Luckily a friend who lives in the area stopped watching the "Bachelorette" long enough to throw me down a Power Aid.
4. One of my closest friends' mom has really bad cancer and might not have much time left. I feel like an ass because he's been going through it for a while and hasn't told anyone, and here I am jabbering on about useless crap like I do on this blog - and worse. That has nothing to do with rickshawing, but it's been on my mind a lot lately. What can I do for him, Seven Readers?
I was giving a woman a long ride on the rickshaw last night, and we were talking about writing and theater for a majority of the ride, but at one point, I don't remember why, she was telling me about an ex of hers whom she dated for a few months. He was a chiropractor, seemed like a great guy, and nobody could figure out why she broke up with him. Turns out, in her words, "All he wanted to do was fuck me in the ass." Wowee Zowee!! She was too embarrassed to tell people the real reason he wasn't a keeper.
I said to her, "Maybe he was just trying to straighten your back out via his penis. I had a doctor that used that technique on me. My back didn't get better, but the pain in my butt made me forget all about the back pain."
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
I seriously have zero to write about, but I'm determined to write a ton lately, so I'm just going to see if anything comes to me . . .
My trainer at the gym is a big buff man that trains 5 to 10 of us at a time, and when we do dips, he likes to lean on your shoulder and talk to you about things like the Rain Forrest, just to put added weight on you. He's a lot of fun, and sometimes he turns the volume down to sing your name, "Dr. Ken! All the way down on those push ups" in time with the music. He still uses CD's which I respect, but today it started skipping right in the middle of "Just Got Paid." I fricking love that jam! Actually, no, that one played through, but it was a weird mix that I didn't like as much. It skipped right in the middle of that "Do You Think I'm a Nasty Girl" song that's playing at the titty bar in Beverly Hills Cop. You never hear that one anymore. Damn.*
This weekend I'm going to ride the rickshaw to take people around to and from the Dave Mathews Band concert at Wrigley Field for some extra cash, and then I'm going to try to put in work from home on Saturday for more extra cash, work on the play I'm writing for a bit, and then reward myself with many Leinenkugels at Chicago's Muskie Fest, one of the best street festivals in Chicago.
Aren't you glad you know what I'm doing this weekend and what my trainer at the gym is like? Are you writing this all down because this crap is important, somehow? I'll leave you with this question so that you have something to comment about besides how lame I am: Speaking of the skipping CD's, do you have any tapes, records, or CD's that you still play, in the car perhaps, that still plays like a champ? I have had Slayer's "Seasons in the Abyss" in my car since high school, and it plays perfectly. I used to jam it on the way to college classes after all nighters, hitting those drum fills hard to stay awake. It only gets inserted** around seven or eight times a year, but it always comes through. You have anything like that?
--------------------------
*As always, if you want to bump the Youtubes, and you do if you wanna dance and get funky, be sure to hit pause on the music player to the right. **That sounds dirty.
I saw a fairly attractive girl's boobs pop out of her shirt the other night, and I was not at all turned on.
Allow me to explain. I was working a shift on the rickshaw/pedicab as the locals were growing increasingly intoxicated, and three females were crossing the street to the bar in which I was parked nearby. As the second drunkest one gets to the curb, she trips over it, knocking over the drunkest one to the ground, causing her shirt to get pulled down and her bare breasts to get pulled out of the top of her top.
This was what Jerry Seinfeld called in one of his episodes of Seinfeld, "bad naked" for at least three reasons:
1. She was horribly, horribly drunk. 2. She was possibly hurt. 3. And worst of all, she was crying.
It kind of reminded me of that picture on the inside of the Appetite for Destruction album.
I got off my bike to make sure she was okay, and she did seem unhurt. However, I did advise her friends that they should take her home, which they didn't. Sure, pay no attention to me just because I'm carting around drunks on a bicycle. That's exactly why they should listen to me. I'm the sober man out there on those streets, giving me superpowers. I know them better than they know themselves. I know when boobies are going to pop out even before they know it. Actually, I don't quite know that much. That really would be a super power . . .
I'm riding a rickshaw bike as a summer job, charging fares to drive people around, usually to the ballgame, to a bar, or back home. I see a lot of strange stuff riding around or parking my bike waiting for fares, especially being that I'm stone sober, which is like having super powers of observation skills if you've ever been the lone sober guy out.
So, here is story number one.
A woman and her boyfriend are outside the bar, leaning against the brick wall, and he's trying to talk to her, but she's swaying back-and-forth quite a bit. Suddenly, she barfs so much puke directly onto the pavement and some directly on her own feet and sandles. If only it were winter; maybe her feet would have been safe.
Anyway, it took at least ten minutes for the guys from the bar to come out to hose down the patio, so I was doing my best to warn pedestrians not to step in it. It's the least I could do . . .
