Friday, October 29, 2004

Trick or treat?

Have a great Halloween!

Thursday, October 28, 2004

John Hancock for sale $5.99

I gave Jason a call tonight and we got together for a pissing contest. First we went 1-on-1 half court at the gym. I won. Then we moved to the weight room and pumped some iron. Jason is older than I am, barely, but smaller. He’s 5’9” at best and maybe weighing in around a buck 80. I took his ass out on bench and he forfeited on squats. But my knee! Pussy.

Then we jumped in the truck and headed out to Mountasia where they have a batting cage. I knew I was in for some shit there, but I tried to shake him down.

The machine, affectionately nicknamed Jugs, popped off a fast ball and Jason gave it hell, smashing it into the netting. “Must be on Minor League setting,” I told him.

He stared me down for that one. He was playing AAA last year after he tore his ACL during the season with the Twins year before last. I think his pride was hurt as much as his knee.

Jugs fired off two more shots, Jason smashing them both into oblivion on the other side of the cage. I got tired of the shit eating grins. “Give it a rest. It’s my turn.”

I put on my helmet, grabbed the most appropriate made-for-a-13-year-old bat and fired it up. Jugs popped off the first ball.

Swish! I think my vertebrae snapped I spun so far around. I took 9, count ‘em, NINE more swings before I finally hit one and fouled it off to the right. It took Jugs less than 5 minutes to complete the humiliation a la Jay. It was a sound ass whooping that didn’t even come close.

On the way back to the house I told him, “I beat you in hoops and weights. That outranks your adolescent batting cage.”

He replied with, “At the end of the day,” Jason always says ‘at the end of the day’ before something minutely profound, “It’s my name selling merchandise on eBay."

“Bullshit!”

We got back to my place and Jason jumped into his truck and headed home. I went straight inside, logged onto eBay and ran a search of his name.

I’ll be damned. That sack of shit. I should have had him sign my sweaty ass gym shorts so I could get in on the action.




Wednesday, October 27, 2004

High price to pay

The summer I turned 12 I spent most of my days at the bayou swinging from a rope and splashing into the muddy water. On occasion someone would shout out “nutra rat!” or “moccasin!” and we’d race back to the dock and climb out of the water. Other than that, it was harmless fun. At least it was until Ray showed up with a can of Krylon.

Raymond was 16 but had failed 4th and 7th grades so he was still at the junior high with us. He wasn’t stupid, just rebellious. If someone told him he was scared, he’d prove him wrong. If someone told him he couldn’t do it, he’d show him he could. Raymond liked being the first to break the mold in our little group. And that day when he showed up with a can of pewter grey spray paint I figured we were in for an artistic treat of some sort that was sure to get my ass whipped when my old man found out.

It was my turn on the rope when it happened. I grabbed on, took a couple of steps back and let her rip. I swung out over the bayou and let go, hitting the water several feet below with my best splash yet. Surely nobody had topped that one. When I came up I expected cheers and applause but instead it was quiet. Jason and another boy, Kelly, were standing beside Raymond as he sprayed the paint into the inside of the cap. I swam over to the dock and by the time I pulled myself up I heard him explaining proper sniffing technique to the others.

“Hold it over your nose like this.” And then he placed the cap over his nose and inhaled.

I stepped between Jason and Kelly, water pouring down my body and soaking the boards while I panted from the swim back in. I watched Raymond’s eyes close and he slowly lifted his head back with an almost smile.

“That’s great,” he told us.

Ironically, it didn’t look great to me. Raymond held the cap out to Jason and that’s when I felt the fear. Don’t do it! But saying that out loud would make me a chicken and I was no chicken. I literally crossed my fingers behind my back and hoped Jason knew better. We both knew his old man was way stricter than mine. His old man would kill me, too, just for letting him do it.

Jason declined. I exhaled. He said he wanted to swim then snatched the rope and swung off the dock into the water. Raymond called him a few choice names that intimidated Kelly into agreeing to try it. Ray offered to show him one more time how it was done. He sprayed the inside of the cap for several seconds then held the cap to his nose and sucked in hard, holding it there for multiple breaths.

That’s when it happened.

His eyes rolled back into his head and he fell to the side. Kelly and I both jumped on him, shouting his name and shaking him. Jason climbed onto the dock and said he was going for help, then high-tailed it to Mrs. Peveto’s house, the nearest neighbor.

I remember Ray’s face, the blue lips, open mouth and pewter grey semi-circle across his cheeks where he'd touched the cap to his skin. He was warm and solid and looked like…well, he looked like Ray. Why shouldn’t he, he was still Ray, right?

Right? “Ray?”

Kelly cried and started hyperventilating. I didn’t know what to do with him or with Ray. I just knelt there, dripping with river water, scared and absolutely motionless.

I don’t know how much time passed or what the paramedics said when they arrived. I just know Ray never moved again.

Any time I watch a show or movie with a scene where CPR is being administered I wonder…what if I had just tried it. Could I have saved him?

Tuesday, October 26, 2004

A little more remote than I'd like

Where in the hell is my remote control? I started flipping when the commercials came on during the World Series when my boy, Jason, called. I went to the kitchen for a bowl of ice cream and when I came back and sat down I’d left off on channel 39, TCM, whatever that is.

To make matters worse, it’s a musical. West Side Story. Come on, Maria. Fuck Tony and get it over with.

“…in America! …in America!”

I endured 10 minutes, coincidentally how long it took me to eat my ice cream, before I finally got off my lazy ass to look for the remote. Under the cushions, in the recliner, on the floor, beneath the sofa, in the refrigerator, on the counter. For the love of god where in the hell did I leave the damn remote control?

“I’m distoibed, I’m distoibed, I’m psyyyyyyychologically distoibed….”

Fuck! Under the table, under the rocker, behind the end table, in the freezer, in the dishwasher, under the recliner, under the throw pillow. I REFUSE to turn the channel by hand. That’s why I have a freaking remote the size of a horse’s ass with more buttons than a 757. I shouldn’t have to get up and poke a button with my finger in a slumped, unnatural position. That shit is just wrong.

“…oh so pretty, I feel pretty, and witty, and briiiiiiiiiight!...”

Oh god!!!!! On the desk, near the phone, in the drawer, on the mantle, on the floor, in my pocket (like it would fit), under the desk, under my chair, on the bed, under the bed, in my goddamn fucking hands! Nothing, nada, nowhere!! What the fuck did I do with that piece of shit remote control? I went from the living room to the kitchen to the living room. How could it be lost?

Jasmine called at that moment and I explained to her my plight. “Are you sure you didn’t go anywhere else?”

Like where, Boston? Fucking women. I excused myself from her infinite wisdom and hung up the phone in order to get back to my 911 search.

“The Jets are gonna have their day toniiiiiiiight!”

Shit! I give. I fucking give!

It was shriveled pride that I stomped over to the television like the whipped little bitch that I am and pushed the channel down button thirty times to get back to Fox. Afterwards I dragged my defeated ass into the bathroom to take a leak and I’ll be damned if that son of a bitch wasn’t sitting on top of the tank to the commode.

Oh yeah. I peed after I hung up with Jason.

Shut up.

Monday, October 25, 2004

Strolling down memory lane

Today when I was taking a leak another broker walked in and started a conversation with me while he whipped his shit out. As I stood there, disgusted with the idea of engaging another man while he held his own member, I recalled a blog post I read long ago. I don’t recall who wrote it, but I remember it was a guy upset about people who tried to talk to him while taking a leak in the restroom.

Some time later on I remembered the site of a chic dating a married man (who was separated, I think). Big shit, right? Except that she posted a photo of her boyfriend’s wife’s coochie which she’d found hidden within the files of the hard drive.

I remember a blog about a seal with panties eating beavers. If only I could remember where I read it I’d go back and clarify that one.

I know somewhere I read about a chic getting naked in public with her guy who’s in the service. That’s another one I wish I could recall the owner of.

I remember a blow job post, or maybe it was sex. It was the first post written by someone testing the blog waters. I suspect it was Zelda, but I haven’t been by there to check.

Everything else in my head, all of ya’ll's personal shit you’d never tell your friends and co-workers, is neatly categorized and labeled based on levels of deviance. Freak, Nasty, and just plain Fucked Up Shit. Sometimes when I want a laugh, I hunt down the pumpkin humping story or the beeping fire alarm story or the thong panties as a blanket in church story and realize…you people are not right.

Damn glad we met.

Sunday, October 24, 2004

Poetry by Jay, Buzz by Miller Lite

Ode to the female figure

Oh what a beautiful bosom I see
With swells and recesses
And nipples that be

Oh what a lovely cleavage I see
With softness and bounty
And pleasures for me

Oh what a firm derrière it must be
It bounces and tightens
And flexes with glee

Oh what a cute little freckle or three
Bridging the nose
Running cheek to cheek

Oh what a warm luscious mouth of thee
Sassy and sexy
Yet surrenders to me

Oh what a jiggly and wiggly treat
The hiney, the boobies
All dancing for me

Oh what a – Jazz just told me to give it a rest, for Christ's sake.

Next time I will write my drunken prose silently and she will not be able to thwart me, depriving you all of my creative juices. This world is a sad, dark place without my juices.

Time to go mumble against her neck until she giggles herself into a more accessible position.

Thursday, October 21, 2004

On the corner of Stickingto and Myass

We broke a record today. Had to. I’ve never felt humidity this thick in my whole god forsaken life. At one point I had to use my arms to wade through it. Of all days for me to go downtown, this was the worst. It’s 8 blocks due west on Dallas St from the metro stop to my once a month pseudo office. Eight fucking long ass blocks in 90 degree heat and 100% humidity. How in the hell can it be 100% humidity and not be an ocean? Enlighten my ignorant ass.

I wore my glasses today since my right eye’s been bothering me. Big mistake. I couldn’t see shit when I stepped off the metro except white fog. Took off my glasses and the color returned but it wasn’t any clearer since I’m blind as a bat, which by the way I hear aren’t really blind at all but that’s not the fucking issue right now so don’t start with me.

I got two blocks. Two whole blocks before I felt the first droplet of humidity/sweat race down my spine. My slacks were clinging to my legs as if I’d failed to towel off after the shower before getting dressed. My hair, which has a natural wave, became downright afro-ish somewhere between Milam and Smith and my face was entirely fluid, running down my neck and into the noose they call a starched shirt collar. Every breath I took was warm and wet and stagnating. By the time I swam up to the building I looked like I’d just run 10 miles. I went into the men’s room, unbuttoned my shirt, dropped my pants and thanked God almighty for Freon. Fuck the ozone.

I tried to wipe down but my options were meager at best. I had little bits and shreds of cheap toilet paper stuck all over my torso, snagging on my washboard and shit. Oh, the woes of being me. And it took me 10 minutes to tame my ‘fro. After I’d sopped up all of the lovely Houston weather from my crevices and planes I got redressed and went upstairs.

When I walked past the big wig’s assistant she said to me, “Morning, Jay. You always look so professional when you come see us.”

“Some things just come natural,” I lied.

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

What an idiot

When I got to work Monday morning Jazz was at her desk. I walked by but she didn’t look up. I went in the kitchen for a cup of coffee, looking at her as I passed. Still, she didn’t look up. I got my coffee, said something stupid and mindless to her broker who sits in the office across from her. No response from her. Fuck.

I went back into my office and called her on an outside line. She didn’t pick up. I got back up and peeked out. She was staring right at me. I motioned with my hands as if to ask, “Are you gonna pick up?” She gave me that “You poor, pathetic creature” look and shook her head.

I called again. This time she answered.

“Good morning. Thank you for calling Big Financial Firm. This is Jasmine.”

“I’m so sorry. Honest. Did you get my messages?”

Painfully long pause. “Yes, sir. I got your message.”

At this point I saw Sarah come in for work and sit down to log on. I had to lower my voice. “I told your crazy sister to tell you to call me. Jim came and got me. It was 5:30, Jazz, I wasn’t in my right mind! Come on, please, talk to me.”

Surely she would understand that. It’s not illogical to see how I wasn’t coherent on five hours of sleep, right? And why the fuck didn’t she call me back yesterday. If Cruella didn’t give her the message I’ll wring her scrawny neck. “Why aren’t you talking?”

I waited. And waited. Goddammit. I hung up the phone and not so nonchalantly stepped into my doorway and looked right at her.

Sarah said something obnoxiously chipper to which I grunted in response. Jasmine got up and walked out the back door which leads to a hallway where the restrooms, elevator and snack machines are located. Feigning a bladder emergency, I followed suit.

I expected her to escape into the ladies room, expected to have to chug water from the fountain for however long it took her to come back out. Instead she headed toward the elevators and pressed the call button.

I stepped beside her though it seemed she was oblivious to my presence. The ding went off and the far set of doors opened. She stepped on and I followed her. Once we were alone I gave her my best evil eye for running from me. She pretended not to be intimidated but we both knew she really was.

“Stop staring at me.”

“I can’t.” That wasn’t what I’d meant to say, it just popped out. I should have come back with something sarcastic but I wasn't on my game.

When she gave me that agitated look that I seem to earn so frequently all I could do was wait for the reprimanding I knew I deserved. The elevator reached the top floor and stopped. She hit “G” and when the doors closed again she turned to me.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Jay. But it was nice to see how you handled it when you thought you had.”

And that was it. What the fuck? "Seriously?" I'm not in trouble? What in the hell do I have to do to get in trouble, knock up her sister? Now there's a disgusting thought.

She touched my fingers before the elevator landed back on the floor and when the doors opened I let her off first. She walked toward the restroom and tossed back to me, “By the way, babe, Bianca has my birthdate wrong in the newsletter. I told you it’s the 18th, not the 17th. That’s today.”

Shit.

Monday, October 18, 2004

Screwed in a bad way

Last night over dinner I said to Jazz, “What do you want to do for your birthday tomorrow?”

I got the surprised response I was expecting. The kind of look men know translates into “You remembered!” nookie. The monthly newsletter Bianca sends out includes the names of employees celebrating a birthday for the month. Even though Jazz had mentioned when hers was, I couldn’t remember for shit and being a man I damn well knew better than to admit that. I trusted the newsletter to save me and it did.

“I’m helping my sister tomorrow, remember?”

“No problem. I’ll take you to breakfast.” Jazz’s sister, Cruella, is staying with her for the weekend. Some unlucky bastard has decided the woman is the best he’ll ever do and Jazz is going with her to try on wedding gowns. Like I need that shit in my life right now. Bitch, take your influences far away from my girlfriend.

“Breakfast sounds great. You picking me up?”

“Yes ma’am. Let’s do 9am, before the bible thumpers get out.”

After dinner we went to Best Buy, the manly playground, and she let me play with the toys for an hour before heading over to my place for some good loving and then back to her place to drop her off. I hit the sack just after midnight, tired and satisfied.

At 5:30am this morning my cell rudely interrupted my beauty sleep.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Shutup, bitch. The 20k is today. Get your ass downtown and cheer us on.”

I laid there, rubbing my eyes in the dark, struggling to comprehend the conversation. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Um…because…I need to…do…something. “I think I’m busy.”

“Be at my place in 30 minutes and you can ride with me. Hurry it up.”

The line went dead. Jesus. That was Adam, wasn’t it? Hell I don’t even know. I sat upright with my feet on the floor and checked the incoming call log. No, it was Jim. What the hell, he’s not supposed to be running this soon. Especially not 13 miles.

The phone was still in my hand when it rang again.

“Now what?”

“The hell with you, I’ll be at your place in 20. I don’t trust you to be on time.”

I struggled to orient myself. What was today? Had to be Sunday if there was a race. Shit, I’m tired. What did I do last night? I wanna go back to bed. My jeans were lying on the floor beside the bed. I stepped into them, fuck it if they aren’t wrinkle-free and I didn’t waste my time zipping the fly either. To hell with it. I walked into the closet and grabbed the shoulder of a shirt and tugged it, flipping the coat hanger off the pole. That fucker lied when he said 20 minutes. The doorbell rang before I had my shirt on and another thirteen times before I answered the damn thing.

“Grab a cap. You look like shit.” Subtlety escapes Jim.

“Are you saying you won’t fuck me looking like I do?”

“Forget it. It’s your head. Come get in the truck.”

I stepped into my flip flops and carried my shirt out to his truck, still unable to remember why I didn’t really want to go. “Man, seriously, there’s something I’m supposed to do today.”

“We’ll be back by 10. You don’t have anything to do but sleep.”

He had a point. I climbed in and we headed downtown.

Friday, October 15, 2004

3:45:55 total, 8:36 per mile pace

At mile 15 Jim decided his bladder couldn’t take the jostling any longer. We agreed to part ways and I shouted out to him, “I’ll feel bad crossing the finish line without you!” He gave me the bird and was swallowed into the quicksand of faces behind me as I carried the torch alone.

A couple miles later I noticed the cold, brisk air was no more. Sweat started to run down my back and between my ass cheeks. I so hate that shit. There’s nothing worse than swishy ass cheeks. When alone, I can reach back there and wedge my shorts up in there to soak it up, but in a crowd I was left to pray my crack didn’t chap from the sloppy moisture.

At 19 miles I was starting to feel guilty for leaving Jim behind. Did 2 minutes really matter in the long run? Nah. But before I could too heavily berate myself I felt it hit me. Like a pile of stone landing on me all at once. I’d hit…the wall.

Not a real wall, Peon, the figurative 20 Mile Wall other runners have warned me about. In both of my previous races this phenomenon has never occurred. I was cocky, arrogant, and deserving of a good, solid impact. I’m struggling to describe the sensation.

One minute I was running along, picking up my feet one after another, focusing on my breathing In, in, out, out, in, in, out, out. The next minute my brain took a shit and my breathing wet awry, my legs gained 20 pounds each, people I’d whisked past only moments ago were elbowing right back past me.

Oh god I want to walk. Just a few steps.

But I knew better. Walking hurts after running for so long. It fucking hurts. Your body gets accustomed to the stance, bent elbows, short knee-bent strides, and that mind-numbing jarring your body adjusts to within the first mile. Walking no longer feels normal. Fluid rushes into your fingers the moment your arms drop, muscles tighten up and make an extended stride painful and awkward, you seem to sweat more and your blood pools wherever it can. Walking was out of the question. I had to keep running.

At mile 23 I think my eyes crossed. What the fuck was going on? It must have been 96 goddamn degrees outside and after the race I’d discover I had acquired a glorious Hawaiian tan while running in the streets of Chicago. Three point two miles, that’s all. I can do that in 25 minutes if I push.

Bullshit.

At the 24 mile marker I was gasping for air and sweating like a $2 whore on nickel night. This is all Jim’s fault, that pissing little bladder bitch. He was supposed to be here to act as my moral support and vice versa. I know I told him to water the bushes on his own, but I didn’t fucking mean it! He could have sprinted and caught back up with me, the lazy prick. I can’t believe he left me here to die on this wall alone. That’s the last time I let him pee by himself. From now on, every time Jim takes a leak, I’ll be right there. Waiting patiently. Might even offer to shake it off for him if it would speed things up a bit.

Just past mile 25 the crowd was so dense I couldn’t hear my own whining. One, one, one…in, in, out, out, in, in, out, out…one, one, one… I became the slow bitch in the left lane on the interstate that last stretch. I was too tired to get out of the way, but too dumbified by the wall to care.

I trotted past the 26 mile marker, my feet barely leaving the concrete as I basically walked in a running man position. That was when I felt something snag my hand and jerk me forward.

“It’s about fucking time!”

“Shut up and run before you get trampled.”

Jim continued to pull me away from the left side and I found a meager second wind. I dropped his hand, feeling just a wee bit queer for running while holding a man’s hand (sorry, kev, guess I’m straight after all, but I'll keep you posted if things change).

As we approached the FINISH LINE banner I never felt so much relief in my life. My shorts were lined with salt rings, my ass cheeks were slip sliding away back there, my lungs burned, my brain was as sharp as boiled squash and as I stepped across the finish line I had to fight a manly urge to cry. Ironically, I morphed in Forrest Gump once I crossed, unable to stop running. Like a retard on crack, I just kept going.

I snatched a space blanket and eased into a walk. Oh shit, did that hurt. My knees didn’t want to be anywhere near each other. I managed to wobble down to my designated tent to pick up my bag. Jazz was sitting on the outside of the fence line across from it waiting for me. I straightened my back, clenched my teeth and walked as nonchalantly as I could muster to the fence. She puckered through the chain links for a kiss and smiled as if I’d come in first.

“I did awful. I hit the wall.”

“Did you finish?” she asked me.

“Well, yeah.”

“That’s all that matters.”

I thought that was the nicest shit she could have said to me. Of course, Jim had his own opinions when we met up that night for pizza that he was more than willing to share with the crowd. Next time, I'll have to leave him behind for real.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

The first half

Oh my god, I have never seen so fucking many people in my life. It was an awesome site. I slipped out Sunday morning while Jazz slept and met with the group at the Hilton on Columbia near the starting line. We were all dressed too warmly. They’d been warning us to wear throw away clothes that could be discarded when we got hot, but we had no idea that would occur while standing within the tightly packed throng of people in the middle of the street waiting to cross the starting line.

Once the race began it took me 5 agonizingly slow minutes just to cross over. And even then I couldn’t run yet. I was desperate for elbow room and got stepped on and pushed a number of times before I said fuck it and gave as good as I got. Jim, the guy from my local running group who is within my time range, had to take a leak at the first goddamn mile marker, fucking pussy. I didn’t want to lose him so I sacrificed 3 minutes while he took care of business in the one of a million port-o-johns. We were built with hoses for a reason, hang that son of a bitch out and let it fly. That's what some of the others did. That was fucking hillarious, too. Women can't do that shit. The men were lined along the wall within an underpass area during the race, a steamy river of ammonia flowing downhill. But I digress...Jim used the big boy potty and we got back to it.

The race never thinned out. Never. We were packed like sardines the whole damn time, though the pace picked up by the time we got to mile 3 which I think was State St. It was 53 degrees, I remember seeing it on a clock as I ran by at the corner of State and Wacker. Just a few dozen yards ahead of me I could see a man juggling as he ran, fucking show off. Who can’t juggle and run a marathon simultaneously? I also had a back and forth going on with runner 9999.

By mile 10 I was feeling like a champ and passing nimrods left and right. Jim’s ass was starting to lag behind and I warned him I’d leave him if he didn’t keep up. He said he had to piss again and I could have smacked him for overloading on liquids. “Run it down your leg. I ain’t stopping again.”

Just past mile 12 was my favorite. The crowd was huge. I know Jazz was there but as I went through elbow to elbow with a thousand other people I couldn’t find her and she admitted she never found me either. Damn, what street was that? Actually, all of the street names become a blur from this point on, but I can tell you what runner 9999 was wearing, the little UK punk, trying to show me up on my own turf. He had “Go Chris!” on his shirt.

I looked at Jim and nodded toward the kid and he nodded back. We separated and let the pavement swallow him behind us before we came back together. We both smiled. It doesn’t take much to entertain us. Unfortunately, our games were short lived as everything changed at mile 15.

Monday, October 11, 2004

Finish Line

I'm back. I'll write something tonight. Feeling a bit stiff and not in a good way. Thanks for the well wishes, I haven't disappointed. One more medal to the collection. ;) I've got some stories to share.

Thursday, October 07, 2004

Final journal entry

I'm back, watching the Olympics. Had a great time in Minnesota. I'll have a better post soon, but I just wanted to say hello and thanks for checking in.

See you soon.

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

Leslie

this is an audio post - click to play

Nita

this is an audio post - click to play

Tuesday, October 05, 2004

Jenny

this is an audio post - click to play

Chi-cah-go

It's colder than a motherfucker up in here. This is bullshit! BULLSHIT! I went outside this morning to test my Addidas on the Chicago Waterfront and it was so damn cold my nuts said, "Screw you, retard," and went back in. Only inmates and hookers should have to live in this kind of weather. Ooh, I want a hot dog.

In case you haven't heard, Seeker has finally grown tired of the women giggling at his teeny weeny. Apparently folding it back to make it look bigger is no longer working for him. I have offered to donate $1 toward his penile enlargement for every blog that joins his webring bullshit. He's hoping to pick up about 4 inches, or 10.16 centimeters for all you blokes, good fellows and chaps out there, so this could take a while. Join, don't join. I don't give a fuck. It's not my johnson, right? Personally, I don't care to be associated with the puny pecker motherfucker, but ego will not allow me to be left out of the community ring he has created. Bastard.

Back to me, you boring audio midgets. Thank you, k, for being my one and only. I'll blog later this week about the Windy City, but for now I need to go load up on some amber carbs. The ale beckons to me.

Cheers.
















Truth is a Matter of Perspective Site Ring
Ring Owner: Seeker Site: Truth is a Matter of Perspective
Free Site Ring from Bravenet Free Site Ring from Bravenet Free Site Ring from Bravenet Free Site Ring from Bravenet Free Site Ring from Bravenet
Free Site Ring form Bravenet




Sunday, October 03, 2004

Kim - Less than Lucid

this is an audio post - click to play

Audio Blogging

It's freaking cold in Chicago right now, especially for a boy who's been training in 90 degree heat all year. The kind of cold that turns "Big Jay" into just "j." The marathon is this Sunday and I'm flying out on the 4th so I can get a few runs in at their ball numbing temperature. While I'm gone, I'll be relying on the wildly successful blogging cop-out we all know as Audio Blogger. I'll be checking in to hear the clips and distinguish between them until Friday, which is when Jazz arrives and I assure you I will be preoccupied until we land in Houston on Monday.

If I don't finish the race I'll lie and say I did. If I trip and humiliate myself, I'll lie and say I didn't. Now call and entertain me.

The Audio Blogger number is:

661-716-2564

After Audio Blogger answers enter the following as your phone number:

713-555-5555

The temporary PIN is:

5555