If you read the post I wrote yesterday, you might not believe what I'm about to say.
OK, here goes: When I sluicing the glass and concrete canyons of Manhattan--delivering everything from the title for land on which towers would be built, pizza with anchovies and pineapple (it smelled even worse than it sounds!), an Andy Warhol print (to Judy Collins, no less!), payroll documents and little packages with their unwritten, unspoken "don't ask, don't tell" policies, if you know what I mean--cab, truck and limo drivers actually used to back or steer out of my way when they saw me coming.
Then again, if you knew me in those days, you'd know I'm not exaggerating. Heck, people used to cross the street when they saw me. I was young, full of testosterone--and angry, about being full of testosterone as well as other things, real and imagined.
Being a bike messenger was probably the one job (OK, one of the two or three, perhaps) in which being young and angry--and stupid enough to believe that my anger was a sign of how smart and sensitive I was--served me well. I was quick; I got lots of deliveries and tips and a few gifts. And, oh yeah, a couple of dates: I guess it has something to do with what you've heard about sex with crazy people. (It's true. The only problem is that, once the act is done, you have that crazy person to deal with.) It's probably a good thing I was a bike messenger: It's probably one of the few jobs in which I could physically channel my rage and not get myself into trouble--let alone get paid for it!
Now, if you've been reading this blog--or if you know me--you know I'm not the badass I imagined myself to be--or, at least, tried to make people believe I was. I know that and, honestly, I'm happy about it. Everything in life--including bike riding--is better even if I don't have the physical strength I once did.
Still, I take pride in knowing this guy has nothing on the bike messenger I was back in the day:
OK, here goes: When I sluicing the glass and concrete canyons of Manhattan--delivering everything from the title for land on which towers would be built, pizza with anchovies and pineapple (it smelled even worse than it sounds!), an Andy Warhol print (to Judy Collins, no less!), payroll documents and little packages with their unwritten, unspoken "don't ask, don't tell" policies, if you know what I mean--cab, truck and limo drivers actually used to back or steer out of my way when they saw me coming.
Then again, if you knew me in those days, you'd know I'm not exaggerating. Heck, people used to cross the street when they saw me. I was young, full of testosterone--and angry, about being full of testosterone as well as other things, real and imagined.
Being a bike messenger was probably the one job (OK, one of the two or three, perhaps) in which being young and angry--and stupid enough to believe that my anger was a sign of how smart and sensitive I was--served me well. I was quick; I got lots of deliveries and tips and a few gifts. And, oh yeah, a couple of dates: I guess it has something to do with what you've heard about sex with crazy people. (It's true. The only problem is that, once the act is done, you have that crazy person to deal with.) It's probably a good thing I was a bike messenger: It's probably one of the few jobs in which I could physically channel my rage and not get myself into trouble--let alone get paid for it!
Now, if you've been reading this blog--or if you know me--you know I'm not the badass I imagined myself to be--or, at least, tried to make people believe I was. I know that and, honestly, I'm happy about it. Everything in life--including bike riding--is better even if I don't have the physical strength I once did.
Still, I take pride in knowing this guy has nothing on the bike messenger I was back in the day:
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| From Engadget |
:-)
ReplyDeleteSteve: ;-)
ReplyDelete