one thing i like vbout noty drinking much is it doen’ty tkemuch for me to get drunk.

i;vr had one yuengling.

time fr #2.

plus i’m cooKing

So last Tuesday when I was taking my hike on the NCR Trail, I noticed several bikers who weren’t wearing helmets.

Okay, so it’s been like eight years or so since I rode a bike anywhere (probably longer). When I was a kid, I never wore a bike helmet. When I was a teen, I never wore a bike helmet. Okay, that’s not entirely true either, because right after we moved to Columbia, Mom & Dad would take me and my sister out for long bike rides down those wonderful bike paths, and I remember I had a yellow helmet.

But whenever I was riding to a friend’s house or the mall, I never wore a helmet, because I was young and invincible. (Yeah, like you weren’t).

However, that was when I was young and invincible. Now I’m two years shy of thirty and very aware of my own mortality. So if I do get a bike this summer, and I do start biking again, my immediate purchase will be of a bicycle helmet to protect my valuable noggin*.

I mentioned the NCR bikers-sans-helmet to Gary, who remarked that he didn’t see anything particularly dangerous in biking that trail without helmets. It was also how he grew up, and he mentioned he’d never bike anywhere without one (of course, I don’t think he has a bicycle, so probably nothing to worry about).

Okay, so I can dig it. Biking the NCR Trail without a helmet might not be advisable, but it’s probably not as dangerous as biking down, say, Manor Road sans head protection.

Guess what I saw today? Dude biking down Manor Road without a helmet. He smiled and waved at me, which was very nice, but I wish — particularly given the big potential health hazzard — he’d've kept both hands on his handle bars. What it really comes down to is that I’ve got no particular desire to be “cool” and bicycle without a helmet. I mean, one false move, and my head goes squish and then I’m stuck in a hospital bed mumbling, drooling, and desiring nothing more than the opportunity to whack off.

*Well, it is to me, anyway.

I was running around gathering sides and sodas for a triple last night when I overhead this:

Zebulon: “I’ve been in a menage-a-trois before.”

Ghetto-Boy: “Er. Dude, that means you had sex with two different girls at the same time.”

Zebulon: “Oh. Er. Never mind, then.”

I hope that someday I’ll be in a menage-a-trois, but until then, at least I can take comfort in that I know what one is.

A frantic call from Silent Bob during the middle of the lunch rush — something wrong with the double he’d just taken. Silent Bob, more unintelligble than usual, Zap trying to get information out of him. Something wrong with the order to DWood Court. Gary makes a snap decision, and since I’m already headed out that way, I take two large pies to that address, scrawled on the right hand side of the ticket in Gary’s unmistakable scrawl: N/C.

Returning, “Mission accomplished. They were very happy.”

“Of course they were! Two free pizzas? Who wouldn’t be?”

Indeed they were very happy. Why Silent Bob bothered to call us we couldn’t tell (this is Silent Bob’s brain. this is Silent Bob’s brain on chemicals) — the workers at the house were lounging around the yard in the shade of a giant tree, the previous order completely polished off. They looked at me like I was an angel, and were halfway through the two new pies by the time I was back to my car. One untoothified dinosaur was crowing about how now he was going to get his pinneapple slices, “…damn you, Joe!”

Gary meanwhile, now that I’m back at the store, all piss and vinegar. Busy lunch. Phones ringing, customers out the door, semi new guy on the subline. Hectic. Messy. Mistakes. It’s slow now. Prep is getting done, tables are being cleaned. He walks away from me after his angry “Who wouldn’t be?”, then stops, chuckles by the back of the ovens. “Mission Accomplished. I get it. That’s funny.”

Gary came up to me yesterday. “I’ve got some good news, and some bad news.”

“Er. I’ll take the bad, I guess?”

“I forgot to call in your payroll. There’s no paycheck for you.”

“…”

“Anyway, I’ll skip to the good news. Your check before taxes woulda been two hundred and seven bucks. Here ya go,” he says, handing me a wad of twenties and singles.

Sometimes, working at a mom and pop shop can be great.

Today marks the beginning of the fourth year that I will have lived in my Timonium apartment.

Previously, I’d lived in a three-hundred thirty square foot studio apartment in Cockeysville. I’d lived there for two years, cramming a futon, a couch, lounge chairs, coffee tables, desks, and book-shelves into a tiny, tiny space. Living cramped for so long, I finally decided to spend the cash and get a larger place — imagine my surprise when the same day I walked into the leasing office down the road, I happened to walk into a promotion: a two-bedroom, garden-level apartment for the price of a one-bedroom apartment.

Well, who could pass it up, right? I sure didn’t.

If you lived in the Maryland area three years ago, you might remember that the spring was week after week of non-stop rain. I was worried, of course, because I was moving on a day that would most likely rain — and I wasn’t moving with a covered truck, but rather with Gary’s open-bed Ford pickup truck. The rain gods shined on me and the day was cloud-free and sunny. The move wasn’t fun, it was about a dozen trips, and after it was completed, all I wanted was to take a shower and change into clean clothes. Whoops. The shower knob fell off in my hands, resulting in a late night trip to Home Depot, smelling like I’d crawled out of a latrine (well, ten plus hours in the hot summer sky sweating).

The apartment has its problems. I can’t cook anything in the oven without setting off the fire detector. My bedroom gets nice and toasty in the morning with the sun directly against the window. There’s an insect problem. I can hear a loud resounding “boom” through the walls whenever anyone slams the building’s front door. The ceiling creaks when my upstair’s neighbors walk heavy. The door to the larger bedroom is barely hanging on its hinges. The towel racks in the bathroom fall off the wall when the slightest pressure is applied.

I wish it had a balcony. I wish the complex had a pool.

Whatever. I love this place.

It’s home.