Archive | November 2010

Pan Pacific Park Jogging Girl in Iambic Pentameter

My cousin Drew Muldowney was kind enough to convert my poem to the girl I saw at the park into iambic pentameter for all to enjoy.

Though I think my original version was about as close to Shakespearean as one could get, Drew has upstaged me by converting it into the Bard’s language.

That’s, count ’em, TWO poems for this girl.  If she doesn’t go out with me now, she’s more cold hearted than I could have imagined.

Check out Drew’s blog, Skunk Works, for more great writing.

My body wrecked and drenched in flab, I ran
On Autumn’s eve.  My legs they fought, my chest
Did burn, but still my face a smile’d span
Olive shining skin, at my soul’s behest!
Near spastic fool our glanced embrace did spark
My heart to thump, the colors of your frock
They danced; they jarred my sullen gray and dark
My thoughts meandered, dost thou think I rock?
The road it turned up towards the sky, too steep
For me to chase.  I sought your grace and beauty
Please bring no sharp retort. I’m not a creep
I chased to speak, to greet the fit cutie.
My Pan Pacific jogging girl I hope
You felt my smile, and not some other dope.


Ode to the Pan Pacific Park Jogging Girl

I’ve written a poem about an encounter I had with a lovely lady tonight while jogging at Pan Pacific Park.  It’s also been posted on Craigslist Missed Connections.  If you’re out there, anonymous Pan Pacific Park Jogging Girl, hit me up.

Pan Pacific Park Jogging Girl

Out of shape, so on a lark
Went for a run at Pan Pacific Park
While trying to avoid splints in my shin
Noticed a beauty with olive skin

Passed a weird guy conducting symphonies
We smiled and exchanged pleasantries
I sported a t-shirt that was plain and gray
But yours was loud with designs for days

Was it first sight interest?
Or just being nice?
Was it quickly dismissed?
Did you even think twice?

The hill got steep
My legs got sore
Please don’t think I’m a creep
Cause you don’t look like a whore

Our paths crossed three times and not once more
Though I was really hoping for number four
Had to stop when I got a cramp
I’ll hold out hope that you’re not a tramp

If I saw you one more time
I’d ask you out for a glass of wine
You’re my Pan Pacific Park jogging girl
Come find me and let’s give it a whirl

VIDEO: Bathroom Stall Phone Number

While driving through middle America with his friend Tony, finds a phone number written in a bathroom stall in Mississippi and curiosity gets the better of him. What will he find on the other end of the phone line? True love? Fleeting passion? A busy signal? One thing’s for sure: He’ll find someone to give him the head job that he believes is entitled to him.

This is accompanying video for the November 4th Blog that describes my experience in a Mississippi gas station bathroom.

Going Gray

DRAMATIZATION: Muldo with dyed red hair. Don't confuse him with the receptionist from "The Bob Newhart Show."

A quick glance in the mirror last night confirmed what I had feared for months:  I’m going gray.  Sure, I had hairs that looked gray or white before, but I convinced myself that those follicles were bleached by the sun, since I used to get patches of blond hair every summer as a child.

This is different.  These are random gray hairs that are scattered all over my head.

I could panic, but I’m not really shocked.  My mom went gray when she was about 27 and covered it with dye.

A part of me considered taking the same action.  I always thought I’d look good as a red head, if not bare a slight resemblance to highly-esteemed character actor Marcia Wallace.  Alas, there is something to be said for aging gracefully.

Besides, it’s not noticeable without looking closely at individual follicles, and my light brown hair color should mask the light sprinkling of grays for at least five years.

Eventually, more and more gray hairs will sprout as father time takes its toll, but that won’t happen for another 10 years.  Solace can also be had in the fact that it will be at least 15 years before I get any significant ear hair, and another 30 or 40 before my ball sack starts sagging as if its a basset hound’s ears, like those old guys I see getting changed in the gym locker room.

Message in a Bathroom

I was traveling through rural Mississippi over the weekend (is there a part of Mississippi that isn’t rural?) and stopped at a gas station for a for a fuel fill up and a piss drop off and came across the above note written on the bathroom stall’s door.  Intrigued, I snapped a photo to document the occasion.

After paying for my cup of joe, which involved dealing with two of the saddest and most miserable looking people I’ve ever seen working at a gas station (and that’s saying a lot), and taking a free cd recording of a local Baptist minister’s sermon, we got back on the road.

I dialed the number written on the stall door, intending to ask for BigNasty, but I got a recording saying the number was disconnected.  The other, crossed out numbers got the same result.  There were brief thoughts of posting a missed connection on Craig’s List in hopes that BigNasty might find me and give me the head job of my life, I decided against it.  Actually speaking with BigNasty would’ve provided a better ending to the story, but sometimes the thrill of life is in the journey and not the destination.