i want your package

Well, let me rephrase that. I want to deliver your package. More specifically, I want to deliver your package on a bike. Unfortunately, I'm not all connected in the scene and, therefore, have no idea where to even start looking for this type of work. Plus, an article published a couple weeks ago in City Paper would have me believe that 1) only old men are bike messengers in DC and 2) I look way too "corny" to be a true messenger.

Thumbs up to safety in the slums.

And while the said "corniness" of my attire may be found in several different items of apparel, including the Golden Girls-worthy cardigan that I inherited from my grandma, the corniest item of them all, according to the bike messengers quoted in the CP article, is my sweet helmet.

Now, I'll admit, the helmet is a new addition to my biking wardrobe. I only recently got around to digging it out of the closet after being peer pressured into it via multiple dirty looks from other cyclists one day while tearing up the C&O Canal at nearly 10 miles per hour, helmet-less.

And while many of you safety and common sense advocates (and my mom) may now be exhaling a sigh of relief at seeing one less helmet-less asshole on the streets, I implore you to stop because, really, the safety aspect of me wearing such a helmet is pretty questionable. In fact, in a twist that only a true idiot like myself could induce, it seems I now ride even more recklessly than I did before. (That bus asked to be cut off!) I can only guess that some misguided psychological aspect is at play making me feel some sense of false security. For example, if I get clotheslined by a vehicle now, at least my noggin will remain intact. Right? Anyone? By the way, I like that word noggin. Probably because it sounds like egg nog and I like booze.

And speaking of that last sentence, which clearly indicates I suffer from at least a small amount of mental disability, perhaps I've already accrued brain damage. That would explain a lot. (Although, really, that effing bus was truly asking for it.) But regardless of the reasons behind my scofflaw sensibilities, it would seem that if safety isn't the primary reason I've decided to sport the bike helmet, it must be because I like the way it looks. It's so spacey!

So spacey, in fact, that as I look again at that picture of me in my hobo lair (yes, that is random garbage scattered about in the background), I remind myself a bit of Cakey, everyone's favorite cake from outerspace.



Wait. Cakey doesn't remind me of myself at all. Well, except for that we both have the ability to turn stuffed animals into soy milk by shooting lasers out of our eyes. But that's where the similarities end! I mean, Cakey doesn't wear a helmet. In fact, I don't think Cakey even rides a bike. And, of course, there's also his unnatural attraction toward 13-year-old boys, and truly, even if I was able to travel back to the year 1962 when Norm Coleman was turning 13, that would still never happen. Wow. This blog just got (more) awkward. Hmm. Let's just forget I tried to compare myself to an extraterrestrial, child molesting cake and try to move on.

So how about that weather? Pretty nice, eh? Yeah.

Outfit details: Cardigan -- vintage; T-shirt: bought at a Bright Eyes/Cursive show in Omaha 2000; Tank -- Filene's Basement; Jeans -- Joe's; Boots -- Steven by Steve Madden; Headgear -- Bell.

By the way, please do let me know if you have any contacts in the messengering business: theantidc@gmail.com. Thanks! AND WEAR A HELMET! Corny is cool.