Monday, April 26, 2010
New apartment CMR
I am not one that believes in wasting time so without any delay, I moved into a beautiful new apartment in Carmel Mountain Ranch with my boo. It is amazing and nicer than 80 percent of the fancy hotels I have stayed in over the past months. The only difference is that now when I throw trash on the ground and drop towels on the floor, I have to clean it up myself. With every sweet there is a sour...Hey, at least, I can't get locked out on the 12th floor here. Living with my old lady is not too shabby either. Greggy = happy.
Sushay Deli
Finally I arrive in San Diego after a long flight home and instantly I am made to feel right at home again. After my girl picked me up at the airport and brought me to the Sushi Deli for a nice meal together, I was shocked and awed, nearly moved to tears when my brothers and all of my friends showed up to greet me. Good friends, good food, hot sake, a few laughs.... Damn life is good!!
Who needs the road when everything you could ever want or need is right in your backyard.
Who needs the road when everything you could ever want or need is right in your backyard.
Goodbye sweet Trotters
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With a heavy heart, I packed my bags for the last time and got ready for the flight home. I picked up a few extra things on tour and getting that luggage in my suitcase was quite the task. Somehow I manage and after a surprisingly unemotional goodbye (all business for the road warriors), I part ways with my globetrotter family and on to san diego. Not before I can listen to some Biggie on the Ipod and take down some BBQ pulled pork at the Neely restaurant (they have a show on the food network) and suck down a bloody mary. As I started this trip I shall also end it with a refreshing $15 drink at an airport bar.
As I sit on the plane homewards bound I can not help but reflect on the people I have met and the places I have seen over the past 4.5 months. It was a true life experience to never be forgotten. I imagined myself sitting in a retirement home 50 years from now slurping noodles and telling some nurse, "I used to tour with the Harlem Globetrotters, I swear."
"Sure you did, crazy old bastard," she'll think as she politley smiles, then feeds me and dreads having to wipe my ass later because I can't do it myself.
As I travel back to life and back to reality, I make a mental point that I would not take anything back or do it differently in a million years. For someone with little to no formal training, I have had an extremely fortunate professional life and have avoided sitting in a cubicle for the most part. Without bragging, I feel confident saying that people would kill for the opportunity I have just had. Photographers would step over their own dying grandmothers to shoot for the Globetrotters and get paid.
On the way home, some fat man on the plane asked me what my favorite city was after all the ones I have visited. I looked at him straight in the eyes and said without hesitating, "San Diego."
The difference between myself and all of my friends on the long road with the Trotters is that I have amazing friends and family at home, which makes being on the road that much more difficult than someone with no ties. I missed my home constantly, while others dread going home, fighting to stay on the road for just one more tour. Is it living the dream out there, traveling the world for free or is it living in a suspended reality, I wonder?
Either way, after being gone for 1/3 of a year nothing makes me more happy than going home to my friends, family and my girl. "Would you do it again?" someone also asked me recently.
My answer: I love to travel and would do so for short stretches, but at the end of the day home is where the heart is. San Diego is my heart and unaabashedly I can say it is the place that makes me the happiest and most fulfilled.
Chicag- whoa
Chicago damn near blew my mind and is clearly one of the most superb cities in 'Merrrica. Now I know what all the hype is about. After the game at the United Center I get a photo on the Bull at half court and with the Michael Jordan statue. That place has a copious amount of sports history that has taken place there and it was a delight to even be there.
The next morning, with skateboard and camera in hand, I ventured out in the city on a blustery day to see what I could get into. The architecture was the perfect mix of old and new, the skyline was phenomenal.
The highlight of the day was after the mission when I returned to the hotel to "mentally prepare" for a five hour bus ride at a friend's room. After "mentally preparing" on the 11th floor, I notice that I had very little time to get to my room on the 12th floor, grab my bags and run down to the bus. Upon entering the staircase I hear the door click shut behind me, a noise that was completely unimportant and trivial at the time. I ascend a story to the 12th floor and to my horror the door is locked. 4 months of using staircases in hotels and never a locked door. The sign on the door reads, "Door Locked, Exit on ground floor only." Ok, that is a little weird. I go up another level and see the same sign on the door. Oh shit, I am getting a little nervous now. I go down another story and see the same sign, door locked. I can't help but laugh at my misfortune here after I curse the heavens for this odd twist of fate. The time is now 11:47. the bus leaves at 12 and there is a $50 per minute fine, given that the bus does not leave without me, meaning my job has been given the kaibash.
I charge down those 12 flights of stairs in about 4 minutes, now breaking a sweat and huffing and puffing. Finally, I exit at the ground floor and see everyone getting on the bus, which means I have about 5 minutes and I still haven't packed yet. After almost knocking over a few people I get on the elevator back up to the 12th, throw my clothes in a suitcase and leave with no time to see if I forgot anything.
I board the bus at 11:59 and am greeted by a chorus of mockery and teasing for almost missing the bus. Mother f*&%$er's, you don't know what I have just been through. Thank the heavens I was mentally prepared enough to survive that bus ride and the torrent of teasing and insults (because I am never late, no doubt). On to the final leg of the journey now.
Good bye Chicago, ol Greggy will miss ya baby, don't forget about me.
The next morning, with skateboard and camera in hand, I ventured out in the city on a blustery day to see what I could get into. The architecture was the perfect mix of old and new, the skyline was phenomenal.
The highlight of the day was after the mission when I returned to the hotel to "mentally prepare" for a five hour bus ride at a friend's room. After "mentally preparing" on the 11th floor, I notice that I had very little time to get to my room on the 12th floor, grab my bags and run down to the bus. Upon entering the staircase I hear the door click shut behind me, a noise that was completely unimportant and trivial at the time. I ascend a story to the 12th floor and to my horror the door is locked. 4 months of using staircases in hotels and never a locked door. The sign on the door reads, "Door Locked, Exit on ground floor only." Ok, that is a little weird. I go up another level and see the same sign on the door. Oh shit, I am getting a little nervous now. I go down another story and see the same sign, door locked. I can't help but laugh at my misfortune here after I curse the heavens for this odd twist of fate. The time is now 11:47. the bus leaves at 12 and there is a $50 per minute fine, given that the bus does not leave without me, meaning my job has been given the kaibash.
I charge down those 12 flights of stairs in about 4 minutes, now breaking a sweat and huffing and puffing. Finally, I exit at the ground floor and see everyone getting on the bus, which means I have about 5 minutes and I still haven't packed yet. After almost knocking over a few people I get on the elevator back up to the 12th, throw my clothes in a suitcase and leave with no time to see if I forgot anything.
I board the bus at 11:59 and am greeted by a chorus of mockery and teasing for almost missing the bus. Mother f*&%$er's, you don't know what I have just been through. Thank the heavens I was mentally prepared enough to survive that bus ride and the torrent of teasing and insults (because I am never late, no doubt). On to the final leg of the journey now.
Good bye Chicago, ol Greggy will miss ya baby, don't forget about me.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Native American-apolis
Indianapolis is one of my favorite cities in this fine country. Very clean, everything is close and easy to get to and there are enough bars in walking distance to satisfy the likes of Michael Madsen. For once, the weather was perfect (notice the t-shirt) so I did the whole jerk tourist thing and cruised the streets gawking at all the sites, jaywalking, and having my friends take pictures of me in front of statues. This is a pretty shitty post, sorry guys, nothing epic to brag about except the sites, my trippy hotel where I was convinced I would fall to my untimely death and the chicken wings I ate at Hooters that night.
Land of Cleve
Somehow I manage to survive Canada and after a 6 hour coma of a bus ride I find myself back in Detroit. My readers will remember that Detroit was where I instantly became a Globetrotter legend by getting thrown in a police car the first week of tour. Detroit flew by this time with no incarcerations or beatings and soon thereafter I was back in Cleveland on what turned out to be opening day for the Indians. With a few hours to kill I hit the streets, which were jam packed with drunk yahoos making their way towards the stadium. The boys and I post up at a Vietnamese spot on the main strip and enjoy $2 beers while these loyal fans denigrate themselves and their city with their booze-fueled Shenanigans.
Due to a miscommunication, another photographer from the company was sent to Cleveland for that night's game. He was happy to help, which to me meant that he would be happy to do all the work for me that day so I stuck him with it. While he was uploading photos, I was able to venture out in the town for some cold refreshments.
One quick side note, Lebron's kids were at the game with their nanny and I am going to go ahead and say that they are some little punks who must be reined in or they are sure to join the ranks of such wealthy little bastards as Paris Hilton or Nicole Ritchie. Seriously, these kids would not listen, didn't care about anything, while everyone kissed their asses all day and told them how great they were. Utterly ridiculous, but not their faults, surely the blame lies on the nanny and those around which allow these menaces to get away with highway robbery. What can you do, their father is a living god of basketball and they are heroes in the city. I can't help but wonder what would happen to me if I spank Lebron's kids and teach them some much needed discipline.
Due to a miscommunication, another photographer from the company was sent to Cleveland for that night's game. He was happy to help, which to me meant that he would be happy to do all the work for me that day so I stuck him with it. While he was uploading photos, I was able to venture out in the town for some cold refreshments.
One quick side note, Lebron's kids were at the game with their nanny and I am going to go ahead and say that they are some little punks who must be reined in or they are sure to join the ranks of such wealthy little bastards as Paris Hilton or Nicole Ritchie. Seriously, these kids would not listen, didn't care about anything, while everyone kissed their asses all day and told them how great they were. Utterly ridiculous, but not their faults, surely the blame lies on the nanny and those around which allow these menaces to get away with highway robbery. What can you do, their father is a living god of basketball and they are heroes in the city. I can't help but wonder what would happen to me if I spank Lebron's kids and teach them some much needed discipline.
Toront- Oh My there's a lot of hookers
The bus meanders its way into Toronto and we find ourselves smack dab on Jarvis St. at a swanky Ramada Inn which boasts a $1000/ night price tag.
I think to myself how fortunate I am to have landed in such plush accomodations for the night. Then before long it was time to venture out on this so called Jarvis St. in search of cold drink. The first sign I see is for a "best ass" contest and like any man my interest is piqued. As I look to the adjoining signs I am assaulted by a visual of an oiled up fire-man and his derrier. Ahh, I gasp as I wonder if I am now gay because I got excited for seeing the best ass contest sign and it was for dudes.
As we round another corner I see a group of young women standing around shooting the bull. They are dressed in pretty revealing clothing I notice as I walk past, a little too revealing one may say. Thigh high white boots all around, gozongas hanging out that could crush a man's skull and the ever present cloud of cigarette smoke around them. Wait a minute... I think these girls are prossies aka women of the night.
They ask me if I wanted to take a few girls to my room for a good time.
"Not really," I reply, "but have a good night."
"Don't lie, they all reply in unison and laugh. Well, it's official these girls are whores. Next I go to pick up the local newspaper to see if I can find a nice antique sale or something and I am shocked at what I find. Truly shocked (see below).
After extensive research via buying of shots for a bartender, I discover that Jarvis Street is a world renowned hang out for whores and gays. It's like a Canadian Vegas where anything goes.
Harveys is a hamburger chain in Canada and I soon learn that the one next to my hotel is the world renowned "Hooker Harveys" where you can get a burger and a piece of ass at the same time.
Whilst leaving this bar, which was an Irish pub, not a gay bar, thank you, I see the streets are now swarming with prossies. They are everywhere, with fishnets, heels, the whole nine. Traffic is essentially stopped. Somehow I manage to get back to my hotel room unscathed and ungayed after making a slight detour by a late night Shawerma joint. Upon my arrival to the Ramada, I see a man and woman stumble into the elevator cutting right past me, making out furiously and tearing each others clothes off. It was a regular freak fest, I tell you. I tell them I'll wait for the next one and they basically fall into the elevator, the air stank with feromones.
I laugh with my friends that a $1,000/ night hotel doesn't mean you will be in a reputable part of town. Besides that, Toronto is an amazing city, very diverse and metropolitan, but not without its seedy underbelly. Our game was where the Raptors and Maple Leafs play and it was delightful. Thanks Toronto, you kick ass.
I think to myself how fortunate I am to have landed in such plush accomodations for the night. Then before long it was time to venture out on this so called Jarvis St. in search of cold drink. The first sign I see is for a "best ass" contest and like any man my interest is piqued. As I look to the adjoining signs I am assaulted by a visual of an oiled up fire-man and his derrier. Ahh, I gasp as I wonder if I am now gay because I got excited for seeing the best ass contest sign and it was for dudes.
As we round another corner I see a group of young women standing around shooting the bull. They are dressed in pretty revealing clothing I notice as I walk past, a little too revealing one may say. Thigh high white boots all around, gozongas hanging out that could crush a man's skull and the ever present cloud of cigarette smoke around them. Wait a minute... I think these girls are prossies aka women of the night.
They ask me if I wanted to take a few girls to my room for a good time.
"Not really," I reply, "but have a good night."
"Don't lie, they all reply in unison and laugh. Well, it's official these girls are whores. Next I go to pick up the local newspaper to see if I can find a nice antique sale or something and I am shocked at what I find. Truly shocked (see below).
After extensive research via buying of shots for a bartender, I discover that Jarvis Street is a world renowned hang out for whores and gays. It's like a Canadian Vegas where anything goes.
Harveys is a hamburger chain in Canada and I soon learn that the one next to my hotel is the world renowned "Hooker Harveys" where you can get a burger and a piece of ass at the same time.
Whilst leaving this bar, which was an Irish pub, not a gay bar, thank you, I see the streets are now swarming with prossies. They are everywhere, with fishnets, heels, the whole nine. Traffic is essentially stopped. Somehow I manage to get back to my hotel room unscathed and ungayed after making a slight detour by a late night Shawerma joint. Upon my arrival to the Ramada, I see a man and woman stumble into the elevator cutting right past me, making out furiously and tearing each others clothes off. It was a regular freak fest, I tell you. I tell them I'll wait for the next one and they basically fall into the elevator, the air stank with feromones.
I laugh with my friends that a $1,000/ night hotel doesn't mean you will be in a reputable part of town. Besides that, Toronto is an amazing city, very diverse and metropolitan, but not without its seedy underbelly. Our game was where the Raptors and Maple Leafs play and it was delightful. Thanks Toronto, you kick ass.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Otta- whah???
Miraculously, the G-Trotter gods from up above bestowed a day off unto its lowly crew on Easter Sunday and what did we all do with this blessed free time? Engage in as much hedonistic activity as humanly possible within a 24 hour time span (yes Poutine was included).
We found ourselves in Ottawa, which I later found out was the capital of Canada. Who'd a thunk it? I thought there was a bunch of old buildings there for a reason.
And people were speaking English again, bygods. We must have left Quebec at some point and ventured into Ontario. Although less 'sexy' and foreign than Montreal, I must say that Ottawa has got it going on. During a hearty walk-about the city, I experienced tons of historical landmarks, statues, and sweet new modern buildings, as well as great pubs with open patios where you can drink hearty Candian lagers outdoors. I experienced a few too many of these pubs apparently and ended up passing out back at my hotel room for a good chunk of the day, good times.
All the while, people across the world were in Church awaiting Jesus's rebirthday or something. I am not really sure about the true meaning of Easter, and am lazy enough when it comes to my own religion. When it comes to others I have an attention span the size of Sandra Bullocks capacity to act (which means it is nonexistent).
Just kidding about Easter, I do know exactly what it is all about and this blog is not intended to spark religious debate (that's what the family dinner table is for). As far as Sandra Bullock, I wish I was kidding but the Blind Side seriously blind sided 2 hours of my life and I want them back.
We found ourselves in Ottawa, which I later found out was the capital of Canada. Who'd a thunk it? I thought there was a bunch of old buildings there for a reason.
And people were speaking English again, bygods. We must have left Quebec at some point and ventured into Ontario. Although less 'sexy' and foreign than Montreal, I must say that Ottawa has got it going on. During a hearty walk-about the city, I experienced tons of historical landmarks, statues, and sweet new modern buildings, as well as great pubs with open patios where you can drink hearty Candian lagers outdoors. I experienced a few too many of these pubs apparently and ended up passing out back at my hotel room for a good chunk of the day, good times.
All the while, people across the world were in Church awaiting Jesus's rebirthday or something. I am not really sure about the true meaning of Easter, and am lazy enough when it comes to my own religion. When it comes to others I have an attention span the size of Sandra Bullocks capacity to act (which means it is nonexistent).
Just kidding about Easter, I do know exactly what it is all about and this blog is not intended to spark religious debate (that's what the family dinner table is for). As far as Sandra Bullock, I wish I was kidding but the Blind Side seriously blind sided 2 hours of my life and I want them back.
Montreal, Quebec
Montreal is alot like a clean, not so scummy New York where everyone speaks French. I was actually a bit dumbfounnded at how metropolitan, diverse and meticulously clean the city was. Seriously, I could not find a scrap of trash on the ground for the life of me, which was really scary for some odd reason.
From the streets flooded with tourists, street performers, great restaurants and shopping, to the booby bars touting their "Super full contact" dances, pardon my 'Quebec' but the place has a lot of shit going on at all times. I was able to cruise the streets where I stumbled upon an abandoned mall at 3am in my hotel, an italian dinner courtesy of the Trotters, great architecture and museums, absinthe, and some of the best people watching I have ever seen. For the first time on this tour I felt like I was in a foreign country. And it was nothing like the time I was in Kentucky and just couldn't understand what the hell people were saying. This time the people were actually speaking a foreign language... and there wasn't even a Wal Mart in sight (sigh).
Most importantly, I learned how to say "Je Suis American," which means I am American. Why is this important you may ask? Well, apparently being Canadian and not knowing French makes you a huge, insulting asshole while being American and not knowing French just makes you a regular sized asshole. That fine day, I was proud to be just a regular sized asshole.
From the streets flooded with tourists, street performers, great restaurants and shopping, to the booby bars touting their "Super full contact" dances, pardon my 'Quebec' but the place has a lot of shit going on at all times. I was able to cruise the streets where I stumbled upon an abandoned mall at 3am in my hotel, an italian dinner courtesy of the Trotters, great architecture and museums, absinthe, and some of the best people watching I have ever seen. For the first time on this tour I felt like I was in a foreign country. And it was nothing like the time I was in Kentucky and just couldn't understand what the hell people were saying. This time the people were actually speaking a foreign language... and there wasn't even a Wal Mart in sight (sigh).
Most importantly, I learned how to say "Je Suis American," which means I am American. Why is this important you may ask? Well, apparently being Canadian and not knowing French makes you a huge, insulting asshole while being American and not knowing French just makes you a regular sized asshole. That fine day, I was proud to be just a regular sized asshole.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Ca-Na-Duh
The eagle has landed in Ontario Canada and the first day was most definitely a sweet one. To begin with, I discovered a beatiful creation called Poutine, which contains french fries covered in gravy with fresh mozzarella cheese. It is a true gut busting, cholesterol raising, heart attack inducing delight and I am secretly thankful it is not readily available in SD. If it were, I may very well weigh about 336 pounds at any given time.
The country is also so into hockey that they have pictures of it on their scrillah. I couldn't help but laugh at the silly Canadians and think to myself, "Hockey? that's not a real sport, it's more like an extra curricular activity that your parents make you play because they caught you smoking weed after school and they want to teach you some discipline. The proof of hockey's wavering status as a superior sport clearly being that it is not completely dominated by African Americans. Sorry Hofherr, it's just science.
Canada is so much like America it seems like just another state at times but something you can't put your finger on is off. Maybe it's that the people are too polite or that all the signs are in French and English, or maybe it's just not dirty and scummy enough for me. It could be their affinity for hockey, their aversion to sticking their nose in foreign affairs that have nothing to do with them or the lack of fast food restaurants on every corner. There is also the fact that if I pick a fight with some local yahoo for no reason and he busts up my "money maker" up a.k.a. my nose, I can get it fixed for free by a qualified doctor.
In essence, we just might have to stick our nose in Canada and get our hands on some of that sweet untamed 'freedom' they got going on over there someday soon.
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The country is also so into hockey that they have pictures of it on their scrillah. I couldn't help but laugh at the silly Canadians and think to myself, "Hockey? that's not a real sport, it's more like an extra curricular activity that your parents make you play because they caught you smoking weed after school and they want to teach you some discipline. The proof of hockey's wavering status as a superior sport clearly being that it is not completely dominated by African Americans. Sorry Hofherr, it's just science.
Canada is so much like America it seems like just another state at times but something you can't put your finger on is off. Maybe it's that the people are too polite or that all the signs are in French and English, or maybe it's just not dirty and scummy enough for me. It could be their affinity for hockey, their aversion to sticking their nose in foreign affairs that have nothing to do with them or the lack of fast food restaurants on every corner. There is also the fact that if I pick a fight with some local yahoo for no reason and he busts up my "money maker" up a.k.a. my nose, I can get it fixed for free by a qualified doctor.
In essence, we just might have to stick our nose in Canada and get our hands on some of that sweet untamed 'freedom' they got going on over there someday soon.
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