It was a helluva hella corndog that day before the other day. Matt put on a good show with only three days notice. I wanted to take one photo outside Wa Legal but I didn’t then I actually tried to take one sitting in Louisa Boren and my device was frozen inoperable touch screen no touchy touchy so no photo bro. If I did take that photo it would be here side by side with this Hella photo from 12.5 years ago featuring the same Louisa Boren overlook and the same Rob Fury my fellow quinquagenarian. You’ll have to visualize it.
I didn’t wake up the next morning with a corndog tattoo but I know a few people that did.
A highlight for me was having a couple beers with Mr. Corndog on memory lane and talking about the old days of the Seattle that used to be and how there is no job that comes next after being a messenger. There is no promotion because dispatching sucks and so does the office and the mailroom at Lane Powell is not an option. There is no job that years of messengering specifically prepares you for and there is no job that even compares or offers all the little things.
I’m not a messenger but I used to be. Now I’m the final fifty fucking feet guy on an electric assist bathtub so I still get to walk in to offices and deliver things and walk out. Just this afternoon I walked into an office and kind of had to hold my breath as to not inhale too deeply the perfumes, colognes, microwave popcorns, air fresheners, aerosolized feces and simple chronic halitosis that stews and festers and makes up the atmosphere of indoor air and when I got back outside I shook my head and took a deep breath and reminded myself why I’m glad I don’t fucking work in there.
Here's to you Steve. this bud's for you and this 1999 commercial sums it up you'll just have to change the names as you hum it to yourself and put in all the security guards, traffic cops, receptionists, elevator operators, paralegals, court clerks, US marshalls, bank tellers, baristas, bar tenders, dispatchers, office workers, mail room dudes and other messengers that give you the subtle nod of recognition and respect that you've earned over the last 20 years.
your rookie moment of learning that loose gravel over train tracks will land you on your ass, marvelous, your exclamation of "shit or fuck" eternally echoes, the look of third crossing that finish line thinking they won, realizing they didnt as eddie passed you the yellow: priceless. in the 5 states i have ridden, of my top five rides that ride will always ebb and flow between one and crash on second as the top ride of all time. a bike, a good route and you have all you need.
"every unexpected event is something youíd known all along but had only forgotten for a moment."
"there is no job that comes next after being a messenger. There is no promotion because dispatching sucks and so does the office and the mailroom at Lane Powell is not an option. There is no job that years of messengering specifically prepares you for and there is no job that even compares or offers all the little things."
You really hit the nail on the head with those observations Mark. So true.
You sum it up so eloquently and completely in that third paragraph. I find it impossible over the years to describe or explain that job to anyone who hasnít done it, and thereís immediate understanding amongst those that have that is unparalleled in any of the many other jobs Iíve had.
"I'm definitely not doing it for the money," said Mark Pilder, 38, a legal messenger for 10 years. "I like the job more than all the other jobs I had. Or I dislike it less."
It was supposed to be a summer gig between college and grad school, where Pilder had been accepted to study education. But like many messengers, he relished the job's freedom, camaraderie and physicality. He tried to quit four times.
"I went into this cage," he said of a stint in a bike shop. "My friends would ride up, say hi and ride away, and I was stuck in this little cage."
it's in the PI: https://www.seattlepi.com/local/article/The-plea-of-a-dying-breed-Don-t-kill-the-bike-1265455.php
a fleetfoot or elliott bay cat that is nameless to me. i just remember he wore a flannel shirt all the time or what seemed like all the time because i only ever saw him in his flannel.
no, not that guy the other guy with short hair. yes, that guy.