It appears that the fitness binge I have been on has dramatically altered the content of this blog. For those of you who read regularly, expecting to be regaled with tales of drunken debauchery, I must disappoint you for another month. After all, this month I have to detail my first foray into the world of competitive triathlons. This past weekend, 2/3rds of Team BBK took a trip down to Champaign to race in Tri-the-Illini, U of I's annual sprint triathlon. Competing against hundreds of college kids who were not yet alive when Nintendo released Track and Field and the accompanying power pad, we had to swim 300 meters, bike 14.5 miles, and run a 5K.
While I had been training for this ever since I returned from my bike trip across Iowa in July, my first triathlon experience was almost derailed before it even started. Champaign is roughly 150 miles from Chicago, just long enough to be considered a road trip. As such, everyone knows that you're letting the terrorists win if you don't indulge in America's finest fast food establishments while on a road trip. There was just something about the rhythm of the asphalt under the car and the countless rows of corn whipping past my window that made me crave both Steak and Shake and Chik-Fil-A. I was halfway through my chicken nuggets when I snapped from my fast food induced reverie just long enough to realize that my dining choices might not bode well for my performance the following morning. I immediately had a vision of myself tethered to a toilet in a gym locker room, just close enough to hear the starter's pistol signifying the beginning of the race.
Fortunately my dining options did not come back to haunt me. I was well rested and in good shape gastrointestinally when we got to the campus the next morning. Upon our arrival, I realized that we would not just be competing against a slew of college kids. There were various age groups present, including a pair of 79 year old's, that could potentially embarrass me throughout the race. However, as the race got under way, it became evident that my apprehension was unwarranted to a certain degree. During the biking portion of the race, my strongest leg of the three, I was able to overtake the septuagenarians as well as various baby-boomers. I knew the age of each person I passed because the race officials kindly wrote our ages on our calves with a thick sharpie. I'm not sure if this was done to embarrass people as they got passed by older racers, but it got me to thinking about how I could potentially bring home some hardware during my next triathlon. Upon signing in, I noticed that no one took the time to verify my age. What's to stop me from fudging my age on my registration? That way I could compete against the 40-somethings for an age group victory rather than go up against young bucks in the 25-29 range. I don't think I'll have any trouble passing as a 40-something, and any guilt I might feel would certainly be diminished by the fact that my alcohol and drug abuse over the past 10-15 years has taken decades off my life, leaving me with a body that is actually more reminiscent of a 50 year old's than a 29 year old's.
While I've enjoyed the adrenaline rush that comes along with competitive racing, I'm afraid that this new sport is robbing me of a bit of my street cred. Prior to the bike trip across Iowa and the triathlon, the whitest thing I ever did was stay at a quaint B&B while taking a winery tour through the Finger Lakes region (attending a phish show was a close second but even there you could expect the random Rastafarian to add to the diversity). However, these races are about as white as it gets. The only people of any color at these events are the obese racers who have turned firetruck red as they strain to climb the steepest hills on their bikes.
Most of you might be thinking that I didn't have much street cred to begin with, but at least when I was playing basketball I learned which moisturizers are the best to use when I was all ashy and I knew how to properly mix Hennessy and Alize to make a perfect Thug Passion. And when I was playing baseball I knew how to say ""I've seen better moves at an 8th grade dance" in Spanish when the opposing pitcher would attempt his pick-off move with a runner on first. Losing what little street cred I had is particularly disturbing to me because I witnessed first-hand what it means to be a Midwestern Caucasian during these races. When we were in Iowa, we were surprised by the locals complete inability to pick up on any sense of sarcasm, irony, or the dryness of our wit. For example, one morning Neil asked a high school girl serving biscuits and gravy, "How much would it cost to have my water bottle filled with gravy?" The girl could not wrap her head around this simple attempt at humor and nervously stammered, "uh..uh..uh...I don't know...I'll have to go ask the manager." Due to encounters like this, I started to become fearful that if I continued to participate in these ultra white sporting events, I could become as bland and vanilla as that simple Iowa farm girl standing behind the delicious vat of gravy.
However, this fear quickly dissipated when I remembered that there is one non-white characteristic that I will never lose: the ability to own a room with my dance moves. My moves are so transcendent that the Retar's decided that they needed to share them with the world. Check me out in the video below, (the dance solo at the end has caused a firestorm on youtube as Retar fans across the world have demanded that I be featured in more videos) and be sure to check out their new album that was just recently released. As always, it's free to download at http://www.theretarcrew.com/
Showing posts with label Retar Crew. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Retar Crew. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
A Commitment to Last a Lifetime
As many of you know by now, Lori and I have some HUGE news. We’ve decided that after seven years of dating, we are finally ready to make a commitment that will last for eternity: we are going to get a lifetime membership to the Y. It just makes so much sense from an economic standpoint. In other news, we’ve also decided to get married. I know this may come as a shock to most of you. I bet many of you are thinking A. “Weren’t they already common law married by now?” B. “I can’t believe she said ‘Yes.’ She’s way out of his league” or C. “I thought he was gay.” Well, what can I say? If you had one of those reactions then you had a 66.6% chance of being 100% accurate.
Many of you have been wondering how the proposal went down, so I thought I’d satiate everyone’s curiosity with a blog post. To fully understand the intricacies of the proposal, I first need to give you some background information on the early days of our relationship.
For those of you who lived in the Bronx back in the early 2000s, you’ll recall that Lori and I started dating my senior year of college. I don’t remember much from the spring semester of that year. This was due in large part to the 800 dollar credit card bill that I racked up at Mount Carmel Wine and Spirits in the first month that we started dating. I think I was trying to impress Lori and more importantly get on the good side of her friends with my extravagant liquor purchases, but it’s more likely that the lion’s share of that drinking was done in my basement with my friend Matt while betting each other chugs of Jameson on the outcome of Madden 2002 plays(Regardless of the cause of the exorbitant bill, it landed me in hot water with my mother because my credit cards statements were still being sent home at that point. I got a scolding, but my mother’s anger must not have resonated because I promptly went out that same day and put 300 dollars worth of liquor on my card for the Princeton Men’s Lacrosse team. It occurs to me that that last sentence sounds pretty gay, but I assure you I was just trying to help them out on their 4 hour post-game bus ride. It was my friend Pete who acted a little suspicious when he kept on making remarks like, “Did you tell the Princeton boys I helped you get the booze?” and “I wish I could ride the bus back with the Princeton boys!”).
Despite the the massive credit card bill and the havoc it caused, I do have a few clear memories of senior year. I remember that my hair was quite long and that I was referred to, on more than one occasion, as “Air Jesus” on the intramural basketball court. I remember having a steamy, homo-erotic relationship with my physics professor, Dr. Mancini (Oh wait. That wasn't me. That was my roommate Ed). I remember wearing the same velour jumpsuit five days a week.
But most of all, I remember our first date in vivid detail. It was Valentine’s Day, and I told Lori that I would cook her dinner. She must have been skeptical of me because when I arrived at her apartment that evening, I discovered that I was actually cooking a romantic dinner for three. I was uninformed that her roommate and best-friend Maureen would be joining us (Subsequently, this third wheel would become a permanent fixture in our relationship. Maureen was there for many our firsts. For example, in addition to our first date, she was there the first time we polished off an entire crave case from White Castle, although Moe was of little use eating only three of the 30 sliders. She was also there the first time I bought Lori an engagement ring. Thanks for the help, Moe!). When we started eating that night, the two of them became even more skeptical of me. But it wasn’t because of how I was behaving, but rather they were stunned by the transcendent nature of the chicken parm that I made. They both insisted that my mother must have prepared the meal.
To this day, Lori does not believe that I made that chicken parm myself. So I thought that on the night that I proposed, I would once again make her the same meal I had made nearly 7 years earlier to the day. When she got home from work last Saturday to find that dinner was made, she was not the least bit suspicious. She knows full well my love of fried cutlets, and therefore thought nothing of the tray of chicken keeping warm in the oven. I thought cracking open a two dollar bottle of Charles Shaw Merlot from Trader Joe’s would give her an indication that this night was a little more special, but she surprisingly still didn’t get the hint. Finally when she asked for dessert, I found my opportunity to give her the ring. Earlier in the day the jeweler had given me a complimentary box of chocolates. Apparently when you drop a boat load of cash on a diamond they’ll throw in some cheap candy and a bottle of jewelry cleaner as a token of their gratitude. So I decided to hide the ring in the box of chocolates for Lori to find. Luckily she said yes, and I set about the task of devouring the box of chocolate.
When dessert was finished, I took her to a wine bar where I had arranged for a bunch of our friends to meet us. After the hugs and congratulatory remarks, the night began to spiral out of control. Married life must be taking its toll on me already because I passed out at a bar for the first time since I was 19. I now regret mocking all of you who became really lame post-nuptials because I finally understand the deleterious effect marriage, or at least the threat it, can have!
As far as our wedding plans go, first and foremost, we must decide on the evening’s entertainment. I’m trying to decide if we should book the Non-Jovis (the Bon Jovi cover band that I front) or these guys. Check out their two new videos: Dead Celebrities and 96 Beers (there’s even an homage to me in one of them if you keep your eyes peeled).
Please weigh in on the comments section with your thoughts on the evening’s entertainment, advice on what we should have at our wedding, or anything else you think might be helpful to us as we start to plan this thing!
If you haven’t already done so, become a “follower” of this blog. Consider it an early wedding present. And if you dig the Retaw Crew's videos be sure to subscribe to them on Youtube!
Many of you have been wondering how the proposal went down, so I thought I’d satiate everyone’s curiosity with a blog post. To fully understand the intricacies of the proposal, I first need to give you some background information on the early days of our relationship.
For those of you who lived in the Bronx back in the early 2000s, you’ll recall that Lori and I started dating my senior year of college. I don’t remember much from the spring semester of that year. This was due in large part to the 800 dollar credit card bill that I racked up at Mount Carmel Wine and Spirits in the first month that we started dating. I think I was trying to impress Lori and more importantly get on the good side of her friends with my extravagant liquor purchases, but it’s more likely that the lion’s share of that drinking was done in my basement with my friend Matt while betting each other chugs of Jameson on the outcome of Madden 2002 plays(Regardless of the cause of the exorbitant bill, it landed me in hot water with my mother because my credit cards statements were still being sent home at that point. I got a scolding, but my mother’s anger must not have resonated because I promptly went out that same day and put 300 dollars worth of liquor on my card for the Princeton Men’s Lacrosse team. It occurs to me that that last sentence sounds pretty gay, but I assure you I was just trying to help them out on their 4 hour post-game bus ride. It was my friend Pete who acted a little suspicious when he kept on making remarks like, “Did you tell the Princeton boys I helped you get the booze?” and “I wish I could ride the bus back with the Princeton boys!”).
Despite the the massive credit card bill and the havoc it caused, I do have a few clear memories of senior year. I remember that my hair was quite long and that I was referred to, on more than one occasion, as “Air Jesus” on the intramural basketball court. I remember having a steamy, homo-erotic relationship with my physics professor, Dr. Mancini (Oh wait. That wasn't me. That was my roommate Ed). I remember wearing the same velour jumpsuit five days a week.
But most of all, I remember our first date in vivid detail. It was Valentine’s Day, and I told Lori that I would cook her dinner. She must have been skeptical of me because when I arrived at her apartment that evening, I discovered that I was actually cooking a romantic dinner for three. I was uninformed that her roommate and best-friend Maureen would be joining us (Subsequently, this third wheel would become a permanent fixture in our relationship. Maureen was there for many our firsts. For example, in addition to our first date, she was there the first time we polished off an entire crave case from White Castle, although Moe was of little use eating only three of the 30 sliders. She was also there the first time I bought Lori an engagement ring. Thanks for the help, Moe!). When we started eating that night, the two of them became even more skeptical of me. But it wasn’t because of how I was behaving, but rather they were stunned by the transcendent nature of the chicken parm that I made. They both insisted that my mother must have prepared the meal.
To this day, Lori does not believe that I made that chicken parm myself. So I thought that on the night that I proposed, I would once again make her the same meal I had made nearly 7 years earlier to the day. When she got home from work last Saturday to find that dinner was made, she was not the least bit suspicious. She knows full well my love of fried cutlets, and therefore thought nothing of the tray of chicken keeping warm in the oven. I thought cracking open a two dollar bottle of Charles Shaw Merlot from Trader Joe’s would give her an indication that this night was a little more special, but she surprisingly still didn’t get the hint. Finally when she asked for dessert, I found my opportunity to give her the ring. Earlier in the day the jeweler had given me a complimentary box of chocolates. Apparently when you drop a boat load of cash on a diamond they’ll throw in some cheap candy and a bottle of jewelry cleaner as a token of their gratitude. So I decided to hide the ring in the box of chocolates for Lori to find. Luckily she said yes, and I set about the task of devouring the box of chocolate.
When dessert was finished, I took her to a wine bar where I had arranged for a bunch of our friends to meet us. After the hugs and congratulatory remarks, the night began to spiral out of control. Married life must be taking its toll on me already because I passed out at a bar for the first time since I was 19. I now regret mocking all of you who became really lame post-nuptials because I finally understand the deleterious effect marriage, or at least the threat it, can have!
As far as our wedding plans go, first and foremost, we must decide on the evening’s entertainment. I’m trying to decide if we should book the Non-Jovis (the Bon Jovi cover band that I front) or these guys. Check out their two new videos: Dead Celebrities and 96 Beers (there’s even an homage to me in one of them if you keep your eyes peeled).
Please weigh in on the comments section with your thoughts on the evening’s entertainment, advice on what we should have at our wedding, or anything else you think might be helpful to us as we start to plan this thing!
If you haven’t already done so, become a “follower” of this blog. Consider it an early wedding present. And if you dig the Retaw Crew's videos be sure to subscribe to them on Youtube!
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