Randy Boyd's Blocks

"Boyd, take over!"

2011-10-26T11:44:00.000-07:00

A long time ago, in a childhood far, far away,
there was a time when I played football.

Seize the Dog

2011-10-17T12:28:00.000-07:00

Boomer has seizures. I first noticed them when, at age five, he suddenly appeared possessed. Daddy’s Special Buddy, my golden mutt, was having a heart attack, or about to see a little alien burst from his gut, like in the Sigourney Weaver movie.

To the vet, we went, my friend Linda driving, me in the backseat with Boomer, singing, “Nothing’s gonna harm you (Not While I’m Around)” from Sweeney Todd. His song.

A few hours—and one hefty vet bill—later, Boomer was back to normal, as if nothing had happened, as if Daddy hadn’t been traumatized out of his mind.

Boomer is now 13 years old, and over the last eight years, we’ve tried everything to diagnosis, dissect, determine and do away with his condition, and whether or not these “episodes” are even seizures at all. We’ve tried medication, changing to a raw food diet, getting zapped by some sort of chiropractic wand, as administered by an alternative medicine veterinarian.

Through it all, the seizures, or “episodes,” have come and gone and varied in severity. They’ve also brought out the scientist in me.

Whereas I’ve always considered myself a student of animal behavior (Sociology major at UCLA, go figure), Boomer’s condition forced me to become more of a physical scientist, observing my dog’s habits in an effort to determine any patterns or predictability surrounding his health challenge.

My preliminary results: the “episodes” have to do with a chemical glitch which occurs periodically in Boomer’s brain. His “wires” get crossed, or short circuited, as it were, and one side of his body becomes paralyzed.

What causes the short circuit? They occur most frequently after periods of overstimulating, such as plane flight and visit to granny’s house, or under-stimulation, such as a stretch of time without much activity.

What to do when the short circuit happens? After years of experimentation (holding him, massaging his ears, putting little holistic pills under his tongue during each episode), I’ve found the best way to re-wire Boomer’s brain correctly is to place little bites of his favorite treat, just far enough away from his mouth so that he must move towards the treat to get it (while being partially paralyzed). Once he tastes the treat, I place another one on the opposite side of his head, forcing him to move in the opposite direction to get that treat.

I repeat this over and over, each time placing the treat slightly farther away. While doing this, I talk to him in very excited and encouraging tones (“Get that treat! Good Boomer! Now get that treat!). After he’s successful in retrieving the treat, I shake the plastic treat jar (full of hard treats), making a loud sound he already associates with treats!

Eventually, Boomer’s up and walking, stumbling at first, all in the name of getting that treat. A short time later, it’s "what seizure/episode?” and Boomer’s back to normal, though a bit worn out and warm. Or is that just Daddy?

So far, after eight years of “episodes,” it’s the best way I know to un-seize the dog.

Football Player or Cheerleader?

2011-10-10T10:53:00.000-07:00

Back in the 80s, I was on a college football field many a Saturday afternoons come autumn. Now in the 21st century, I'm here to tell the world: College Football Players: Lighten Up on Your Gay Teammates!

Blissful Ignorance

2011-09-19T07:19:00.000-07:00

How do I tell my dog that his best buddy Max is no longer with us?

Do I look at him with a sad face and say, "Max. Gone."

Do I let him go on in blissful ignorance?

I suppose he'll know soon enough. The moment we step inside my mother's house, he'll go sniffing around for her dog, wondering why Max wasn't waiting on the other side of the door, barking up a storm.

Boomer's tail will be wagging in circles, happy to see his Granny, but he's bound to be confused why he's not seeing "Granny and Max," as he's heard me say countless times.

Boomer and Max have been best buds for over a decade, since first getting a whiff of one another in the family backyard. Boomer was a one-year-old golden mutt, Max an eight-week-old ball of chocolate lab.

"I don't need a dog," my mother had said years before. Then I brought Boomer into our lives. A short time later, my mother had a change of heart: she did need a dog.

Boomer and Max became "the boys," as rowdy and rambunctious as two healthy young male puppies could be. They got along well and helped my mother and me get along well. They wrestled for what seemed like hours on end, even after becoming grumpy old dogs.

How do I tell my dog that his best buddy Max is gone forever?

I suppose he'll know soon enough. The moment we step inside my mother's house, he'll go sniffing around for Max, wondering why Max isn't going bonkers with excitement, or trying to lick Boomer's privates, or nudging in on the loving Granny's giving Boomer, or running around in circles in an effort to contain himself.

I wonder how long it will take for Boomer to realize something's wrong with this picture. Will it be the lack of a fresh scent of his buddy? Will it be the all-but-faded scent of his passing? Will it dawn on Boomer a few days into our visit to Granny's? Will he ever know?

How do I tell my dog that his best buddy Max is gone?

Down But Not Out

2011-09-11T19:45:00.000-07:00

"America can do whatever we set our mind to. That is the story of our history ..."

—President Barack Obama
May, 2011

Yell Leader Splits Pants Before Season Opener

2011-09-10T15:54:00.000-07:00

September 12, 1981. I’m a sophomore at USC, warming up in the end zone of the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum before the season opener, Tennessee vs. USC, my first-ever football game as a USC yell leader.

Although I had been a yell leader for the basketball team during freshman year, football at the University of Southern California was something different altogether. This was the biggest stage, the school’s raison d’etre, so it seemed at times. For goodness sake, this was Marcus Allen’s Heisman Trophy year!

Of course, I was unaware of Allen’s award while stretching in the peristyle end of the Coliseum before the season opener, just that the entire Trojan Universe was about to see me up on one of those wooden podiums flanked by red curtains—a staple seen on USC football telecasts for years—shortly after kickoff, which was more than an hour away.

So I decided to warm up with a few toe-touches, a jump where your feet end up high in the air, parallel to the ground, while your hands touch your toes. I’m pretty sure I was the only person about to attempt one, especially since most of the yell leaders didn’t do jumps.

The all-male, USC yell squad was an enigmatic institution patterned after your great, great grandfather’s all-male, yell leading squad from the earlier part of the 20th century. Essentially a separate entity from the glorified USC Song Girls, the yell fish—as the band was fond of calling us—was mostly made up of white, collegiate-looking fraternity boys who were neither very athletic nor very interested in doing toe-touches.

So the other yell fish, er, yell leaders in the end zone were all standing around, mostly doing nothing, as I tried my first toe-touch, which made it pretty easy to hear the distinctive sound of my bright yellow yell pants ripping as I arrived at the summit of my jump and reached for my toes.

By the time my feet returned to earth, all eyes were on me and by extension, my pants. I can’t remember if anyone offered to help, just the laughter, the knowing looks, and the response by the Yell King (his real name!) when I told him what he already knew, seeing as how the Yell King was within arms reach: “I think I split my pants.”

“So,” said the Yell King, snickering with his cronies. "What do you want me to do about it."

I was on my own, which wasn’t a surprise. It was every yell fish for himself in this pond.

By game time, I was up on my podium in front of the alumni section, having been assured by my lone ally on the squad that the tear wasn’t visible. My best-case-scenario wish was to keep it that way by remaining relatively motionless from the waist down for the entire game (not an impossible dream, considering the alumni section was more subdued than the student section and the game was not expected to be close).

As the Trojans began pummeling the Volunteers, I cheered their every move from the waist up, turning from the crowd to the game — and from the game to the crowd—while squeezing. Oh, and trying to maintain a countenance that said, why, there’s nothing wrong with my bright yellow yell pants.

Didn’t work.

At one point during the game, a female band member approached me from the stands. We exchanged a few words, then headed for the Coliseum tunnel, me still trying to pull off my best impersonation of the graceful cheerleader exit (swift, non-disruptive, humble, head and shoulders down).

Moments later, I was standing alone in my white draws in the lone restroom underneath the tunnel, a tiny, tiny water closet, if there ever was one. On the other side of the door, the female band member was sewing up my bright yellow yell pants with a needle and thread from her sewing kit. Turns out yell leaders and football players are not the only ones who suffer from rips and tears on game day.

I think I missed most of the third quarter, but I did make it back to my podium for the remainder of the game, thanks to my super sewing hero.

Good thing, too. Turns out, she wasn’t the only one who knew of my dilemma.

“You had a split your pants,” noted my boss at work the following week. She had been sitting in the stands, along with the other 62,146 fans who came to see the season opener.

God: All in the Mind

2011-09-09T00:19:00.000-07:00

"God is like a mind. A great, powerful, super-intelligent mind.

The mind is the only thing that exists in the entire universe. There is nothing else outside this mind. The mind is all there is and knows it is All There Is, therefore the mind knows it is all-powerful and can be anything.

But what is there to be? There is nothing because there is nothing else. There is only the mind and the darkness inside.

"Go make something of yourselves, so that I may know what my mind is capable of."

But the mind wants to know more about itself than the mere fact that it is All There Is, so the mind summons up all its power and explodes into an infinite number of pieces that are off in search of whatever the mind can think of and create, all so that the mind may know itself and what it is capable of.

The mind called these pieces energy. And the mind told the energies:

‘Go make something of yourselves, so that I may know what my mind is capable of; and what I am capable of, so that, by separating myself into pieces, I may know myself, and myself in relation to another form of me, which is merely a reflection of myself, the mind, God.’"

—from Walt Loves the Bearcat
by Randy Boyd
A Lambda Literary Award Finalist for Best Romance

"Warm-spirited ... resonates with soulful queries into the nature of love and life." Bay Area Reporter

Of Men and Earrings

2011-08-14T13:37:00.000-07:00

My 22-year-old cousin wears an earring. His grandmother asked him why.

“I dunno,” was his response.

Why, men wear earrings to feel pretty, I could have told him.

In the latter part of the last century, women began taking more control over their lives and men began doing things previously reserved for young ladies out to catch a man: earrings, getting one’s hair-did, fancy jells and perfumes, excuse me, colognes.

Cover boys acting like Covergirls. Fashion statements that state: somebody declared this fashionable and I’m into fashion! Don’t I look pretty? Don’t I smell pretty?

Men who are man enough to admit to having sex with other men need to come up with new terms to describe themselves because heterosexual-identified men who wear earrings and cover up the scent of a man with fancy concoctions in a bottle have given new meaning to words like “gay” and “queer.”

Yes, you all look pretty. Very, very pretty.

The Emperor Has No Debt Crisis

2011-08-04T12:44:00.000-07:00

What if this summer’s blockbuster event—the Debt Ceiling Debate—was the crisis that wasn’t? What if the threat of weapons of mass debt are just as non-existent as Saddam's weapons of mass destruction?

Why do most economists say another stimulus is needed, not spending cuts? Makes you wonder, especially after checking out two stories from Time Magazine and the PBS Newshour.

In Default by Debt Ceiling? 'Complete Nonsense’, the Newshour’s Paul Solman explores why the math doesn’t add up to anything resembling “the end of the world as we owe it.”

“An investment, a security is only as good as your best alternative,” explains a US bond trader. “And, frankly, there are no real alternatives in the world to U.S. government debt.”

Translation: America’s house may not in order, but we’re still number one, we’re still number one! And that’s grading on the curve or not!

In the U.S. Is Not Drowning In Debt, Time Magazine’s Zachary Karabell further explains that while the debt may seem large, looks can be deceiving.

“ … large numbers are not the problem. The U.S. has a large economy. And, crucially, we have very low interest rates, [which means] the amount the U.S. pays to service its debt is, relative to the size of the economy, less than it was paying throughout the boom years of the 1980s and 1990s and for most of the last decade.”

Translation: Objects appear larger when looking at them through a rear-view mirror.

The Five-Year Plan

2011-07-18T11:08:00.000-07:00

When my dog Boomer turned ten years of age in 2008, we made a deal.

Negotiations were tough but fair. We both had demands; we both made concessions. It was all about finding common ground, focusing on the things we agreed on, our similarities rather than our differences.

When it was all over, a deal was struck between myself and the golden mutt I’d raised since he was a six-month-old puppy.

The deal was rather simple: Been together ten years, so far. Another five years, then we’ll re-access and re-up our relationship, providing, of course, we can come to terms again.

Most likely, those future negotiations will once again focus on the type of food I feed him (mine vs. his), the amount of treats he gets, and the number of times “it’s playtime!”

Those are the things that cause our differences of opinion and therefore, stress in our relationship. Mind you, that stress in minimal, compared to the rest of our lives; but the experts say: communication is the most crucial thing in a relationship.

Which is exactly why we came up with the five-year plan. It helps us know where we’re going, where we’ve been, and best of all, it helps us realize: although we may not be around one another forever, we’ve still got a few more years together, as long as we stick to the plan.

The White Stuff

2011-07-11T13:12:00.000-07:00

Confused by today's political rhetoric? Check out the New American Dictionary for Angry White People.

Keeping Up with Randy Boyd's Blocks

2011-07-04T10:51:00.000-07:00

If you love Randy Boyd's Blocks like I do, you'll want to make sure you read every single post.

To do that, you can get the Blocks via email, or you can subscribe in your favorite news reader.

Or you can just keep on coming back to Randy Boyd's Blocks every day for the rest of your life. Your choice. I'm cool like that. :)

Rule No. 26

2011-06-27T12:54:00.000-07:00

Attention, fans of Randy Boyd’s novels, all five or six of you, lol:

My fifth novel is still a work-in-progress, but rest assured, I intend to continue the saga of two boys dreaming in a sandbox, as first dreamt in my fourth novel, Walt Loves the Bearcat, a story of love, football and some very potent daydreams, as well as a Lambda Literary Finalist for Best Romance.

A story I dreamt up nearly 30 years ago while in college, Walt Loves the Bearcat is a 700-page epic that pretty much represents Randy @ 21-42, give or take.

It’s also a dream that spawned another dream: my next novel, The Bearcat Boyz on the Road of Life.

Who are the Bearcat Boyz? What are they all about? Find out in the latter third of Walt Loves the Bearcat.

What happens to the Bearcat Boyz in their own four-book series? Find out when I finish the blessed thing. What happens at the end of Road of Life, aka Book One? As a gift to my patient readers, all five or six of you, I now present: a slice of the next dream I’m dreaming.

In Book One, the Bearcat Boyz learn the rules on the Road of Life. There’s 26 of them, just like the number of letters in the alphabet; and although all 26 rules are very important, the last rule, Rule No. 26, is perhaps the most important, that is, if you want your deepest dreams to come true.

Why, Rule No. 26 is so good, if by chance you happened to forget the other 25 rules, you still have a shot at all your dreams coming true, if and only if, you remember and abide by Rule No. 26.

It takes the Bearcat Boyz seemingly a lifetime to learn Rule No. 26. After all, they are teenagers, and if they learned all the rules right away, I'd have no story to tell. However, since the five or six fans of my books have been waiting so long, I hereby present Rule No. 26 on the Road of Life:

The more you’re at your best,
The better your odds of success.

Thank you for your patience.
Sincerely,
Randy Boyd

Triple Trikke Triumph

2011-06-14T16:21:00.001-07:00

It’s official: three different Trikke events in three different locales have made these past three weeks the most amazing three weeks in the history of trikking in Southern California.

Saturday, May 28: Forty-five trikkers carve up the scenic coast of Long Beach at the Last Saturday of the Month Ride, setting a new attendance record for a group ride in Southern Cal.

Sunday, June 5: Twenty trikkers carve up 26 miles of mountainous trail at the 5th annual Aliso Creek Endurance Ride, setting a new attendance record for a group ride in Orange County.

Saturday, June 11: Twenty-one trikkers carve up the beach trails and backroads of Ventura County at the 3rd annual Trikkenut 100K, an event that drew trikkers from as far away as the Bay Area.

Three events staged by three different groups in three different counties, each of them fledgling hotbeds of trikking in Southern California. Fortunately, I was there for all three events and had the most amazing time at each and every one, each ride surpassing the one before it in terms of superlatives. Total miles trikked: circa 100.

Two years ago, I saw an infomercial that changed my life. I didn’t just buy a Trikke. I bought a whole new way of life! The best part of all: it’s only getting better.

Photo by Douglass Weymouth

Someone Like Me

2011-06-14T08:30:00.000-07:00

"We live in an age where we are inundated with countless images from countless sources, from TV to movies to pop-up ads. A huge percentage of those images deal with love, sex and romance.

"Still, rare or nonexistent is the occasion where I encounter an image that reflects who I am and what I dream of. Even rarer and more nonexistent is the occasion where I encounter an image that might encourage another soul to dream of loving someone just like me."

—from Walt Loves the Bearcat
by Randy Boyd
A Lambda Literary Finalist for Best Romance
Available wherever books are sold

Dear Cops, Thank You for Your Service

2011-06-04T13:33:00.003-07:00

To the officers of law enforcement in the United States of America:

Thank you for your service.

Thank you for fighting for my freedom. Each and every day I live and breathe in these United States of America.

For without the freedoms you fight for, life would not be worth living. Life would be uncivilized. Life would be a whole lot different in the land of the free.

You are the brave—men and women who sacrifice countless hours, and sometimes their lives, upholding, enforcing, protecting the very rules that govern our society.

It is you, men and women of law enforcement, who allow each and every American to exercise our most basic of forms of freedom.

The freedom to not become collateral damage to those who would do others harm, just for being in the way, saying the wrong thing, being too young to protect one’s self.

Americans know this kind of chaos and disorder, as seen on nightly newscast, bathed in the caption: breaking news. As seen on the long-running television show Cops, with its stark contrast of thoughtful officers and thoughtless criminals.

Without you, dear cops, we would live our lives as subjects of the thoughtless, the chaos and disorder would be exponential, the breaking news happening to each and every one of us on any given day of our lives in these United States of America.

Because of you, it doesn’t happen to each and every one of us. And should it, we know whom to call upon. We know, because of you, there’s a glimmer of justice. A hope for a better day.

Thank you for giving me hope. Thank you for being on front lines of our freedoms on the home front in these United States of America.

Thank you for your service.

Parents, Have You Done Your Chores Today?

2011-05-31T08:59:00.000-07:00

I'm guessing a study would show: kids who are put on punishment for bad behavior are less likely to end up behind bars. That's because thinking twice is the kind of learned behavior best embedded in childhood.

I'm also guessing a study would show: kids who have chores are more likely to have better work habits--as well as better housekeeping habits--as adults. What's more, they make better roommates!

And I bet a study would show: kids who do charity work are more likely to be giving, compassionate adults. And make better spouses!

Need more proof? Check out the Best Reality Show About Raising Kids.

Black Man Declares Love for America

2011-05-12T11:54:00.000-07:00

This is the greatest country on earth. The best democracy. The most freedom. America is the greatest place in the entire universe!

That's what I've heard from the mouths of white people my whole life. That's what I read in school books. That's what I hear in the national anthem. That's what I see on television and in the movies.

All my life, the assumption that America is the Greatest Country Ever has permeated my world as if it were another element in the air we breath.

Now I get it! All those white people were right!

I have officially deleted all my skepticism about the United States of America and its great democratic experiment. America is the greatest country on earth! Anyone can rise up and become president of the United States! A man born five months before me, President Obama, is living proof!

"America is more than the sum of the actions and beliefs of any one person, race or group."

Before President Obama, I couldn't relate when white people said things like, “I support our president,” or “I'm doing it for America because I love this country.”

Now I get it. I love America like every white person who has ever loved America!

More than ever, I'm grateful to have been born in America.

America is more than the sum of the actions and beliefs of any one person, race or group.

America truly is the great democratic experiment, the first place in human history where human rights have had this much dialogue at the table, pretty much at all times.

Consider this: the fact that our founding fathers talked about and struggled with the issue of slavery was actually progress. A breakthrough even.

Given what we know about successive generations becoming more tolerant than previous generations, think the grandfathers of America's founding fathers were as conflicted about things like slavery?

Before America, human rights for anyone, let alone everyone, was an alien thought, relatively speaking.

Before America, kings, queens, warlords (and other religious deities) created the law of the land (because it is written in the stars).

Before America, there was little or no upward mobility in society for anyone, regardless of skin color or personal aptitude.

America was not only a new world, America was a new way of thinking, a new way of looking at the world, a new way of looking at human beings and their individual rights. Those bold ideas have evolved to become more and more inclusive and universal, which is why the world still looks to America as its beacon of hope.

Now I get it.

By becoming a living example, President Obama has shown me that America is a beacon of hope for all of us, even us black folk who are the descendants of the men and women who were slaves but a few generations ago.

I, too, am part of the American Dream, even as I feel the sting of old-world, WHITES AND LATINS ONLY racism in My Racist Gay World.

I love America. I no longer feel like its stepchild. I love my president. I support my president. I feel the same as every white person who's ever heard utter the words, “I love my country.”

That as much as anything makes me proud to be an American.

How to Survive Voice Mail Hell

2011-05-07T08:30:00.000-07:00

One simple tweak of your voice mail system could help change the world.

How much collective time could we all save without having to wait for an automated voice constantly telling us:

"To leave a voice mail, press one, or just wait for the tone, or just..."

Save yourself and everyone who calls you the pain and misery of voice mail hell.

How? Find out in We Interrupt This Interruption!, a humorous take on our modern mobile world that could be subtitled: How to Survive in a World Where the Cell Phone Is Always Ringing.

Trikking with Trikke Europe

2011-05-02T12:10:00.001-07:00

Do what you love and fulfillment will follow, so says what amounts to an urban legend, allegedly spoken by the wisest among us. Lately I'm starting to think: they might be onto something.

I love trikking and a whole lotta fulfillment has followed.

First, the joyride of the 21st century whipped my body into the best shape of my life (as I approach age 50!).

Then joy came from being part of the group rides on the So Cal Trikke Circuit, where I’m able to meet and commune with my fellow Trikke nuts.

Next came the joy of creation with my good friend Jeri Thompson. For Jeri and I, it was love at first Trikke, er, sight.

I fell in love with the three-wheel wonder upon seeing an infomercial. Jeri fell in love with the three-wheel wonder upon seeing my first Trikke.

Our first creation was Long Beach Trikkers, the local club responsible for the Labor Day Ride of Long Beach and the MLK, Jr. Trikke Ride, co-sponsored by SouthBay Trikke, the local dealer we rely on like a good mechanic.

Then we gave birth to TrikkeWorld Magazine, to chronicle the carving revolution we love being part of. True to urban legend form, more fulfillment has followed.

This past winter, I took my first joyride on the Trikke Skki, where I got to meet Trikke inventor Gildo Beleski. Talk about reaching new heights.

The joy of trikking is a gift that keeps on giving. Recently, I got the chance to meet three of the carving gurus behind Trikke Europe, who were in Southern California for a pow-wow with the boys from Buellton, aka John Simpson, CEO of Trikke Tech, and the aforementioned Gildo.

After a weekend of highly productive moving and shaking, the European Trikke trio, Joris, Pieter and Felix, headed for LAX, but not before a little lunch and trikking in the adjacent South Bay with Fred Welch, director of the Trikke Academy, and Andy Pliska, president of SouthBay Trikke. Oh, and I got to tag along, seeing as how I was already in Trikke journalist mode, having just covered Mr. Bicep pumping up Trikke on the KTLA Morning Show for the magazine.

It’s a pleasure meeting anyone who shares my passion for the Trikke, but hanging with trikkers from other parts of the planet is especially insightful.

There’s something unique about us Trikke nuts, even if we’re from different continents. We speak a language that’s only a decade old and still evolving, still defining itself, but we’re merely discovering new ways of articulating a rhythm we’ve always known, always hungered for, sometimes without knowing it.

We love trikking because it speaks to us, it speaks for us, it represents our brains capacity to move in dreamy ways.

Thanks to Joris, Pieter and Felix for another great moment in my trikking journey. Meeting trikkers from all over the world reinforces the belief that our growing global community is real and a dream coming true.

Food Services Is Closed for the Night

2011-04-30T00:05:00.001-07:00

Boomer's a beggar. Whenever there's food, he's there with those big, brown eyes, giving me that look, the one he hopes earns him a piece of ... something, anything.

I guess I can't blame my twelve-year-old golden mutt. Aren't all dogs beggars?

Some historians theorize it was young wolf cubs begging around early man's campfires that led to the creation of man's best friend.

Still, you'd think two squares a day, plus treats, would be enough for my best friend.

"Some days, I feel like a treat machine."

Not so. Boomer wants a piece of everything, even though I rarely give him anything. Anything that is, except his food and the occasional bit of people food.

Did I mention the chicken breast treat he gets each and every time we come in the house after he's done his business? Or something good?

Some days, I feel like a treat machine, or a dorm cafeteria worker, which has to explain the phrase I came up with to give myself a respite from my dog's begging.

I say it as I'm tidying up the kitchen before going to bed. Naturally, Boomer joins me with that hungry face that says, pretty please?

That's when I look directly into those big, brown eyes and utter the one thing that puts an end to the begging:

"Food services is closed for the night."

At which point Boomer lowers his head in resignation, exits the kitchen and goes to sleep. At which point I exhale with relief to know the stalking, excuse me, begging, is over, at least for another day.

Keeping Up with Randy Boyd's Blocks

2011-04-28T15:49:00.000-07:00

To the millions upon millions of fans of my books--who don't know it yet--did you know that there's a way to keep up with Randy Boyd's Blocks?

That's right, if you love Randy Boyd's Blocks like I do, you'll want to make sure to get every single post.

All you have to do is prescribe yourself a subscription to Randy Boyd's Blocks. There are two ways do get 'er done. You can subscribe by email and get the Blocks via email, or you can subscribe to the Blocks in your favorite news reader.

The choice is yours, but I were you, I'd wouldn't want to miss out on a single Randy Boyd Block. Then again, if I were you, that would mean that you're me and ... I still wouldn't want you to miss out on a single block! So subscribe! Please?

Pacer Crazy

2011-04-26T11:46:00.000-07:00

Yes! Yes, Your Honor, I admit it: I’m in love with the Indiana Pacers and I hate everyone and anyone who gets in their way.

The love affair started in childhood (what doesn’t?). Daddy was a perplexing man (whose wasn’t?), but on many occasions, he took my brother Stephen and me to the Fairgrounds Coliseum in Indianapolis to see black men with big Afros and white men with long sideburns, all of them wearing short shorts and playing ball for the Indiana Pacers.

The league was called the American Basketball Association, but they might as well have put Ringling Brothers somewhere on the logo. They used a red, white and blue basketball and came up with kooky innovations like a 3-point shot and a slam dunk contest at the all-star game.

The Pacers squared off against teams like the Virginia Squires, Utah Stars, Miami Floridians, and the dreaded Kentucky Colonels, almost as hated as those dreaded Kentucky Wildcats, who (along with Purdue, who broke Scott May’s arm late in the regular season), cheated the unbeaten Hoosiers outta an NCAA title in 1975.

The Pacemate cheerleaders wore go-go boots and sat courtside on furry round swatches of carpet meant to resemble basketballs. Security wasn’t a concept on anyone’s mind, so my brother and I (and our friends Mack and Wiggy) would wait for the players coming off the court after the final buzzer, then ask the giants of the ABA for their sweatbands. George Gervin. Zelmo Beaty. Doctor J. They all gave them to us without thinking twice.

The ABA was bush league compared to the NBA, but it was everything to the people of Indianapolis, whose Pacers were as much a factor as today’s Lakers.

The blue and gold brought three titles to the city and Pacer People rocked the Fairgrounds Coliseum, and later, a brand new Market Square Arena (I was sure I’d win the arena naming contest by submitting: Indiana Stadium. My back up and second submission: Indianapolis Stadium).

Pacers fans even stepped up when the team held a telethon to save the franchise from going to that big luxury box in the sky, where all folded franchise go, joining the likes of the Spirits of St. Louis, Oakland Oaks and Carolina Cougars.

Myself, I put in 2 bucks. The Pacers and their winning ways were a source of thrills and continuity in an otherwise tumultuous adolescence.

By the late 70s, the Pacers were in decline. When NBA adopted them (along with the Nets, Spurs and Nuggets), the Pacers sank to the bottom of the standings for a good long while.

Then came Reggie Miller, booed by fans at Market Square on draft day. That skinny kid from UCLA? He’ll never last in this bang-’em-up league. The circle city had yet to see what I had seen while I was a UCLA cheerleader during Reggie’s first two years as a Bruin.

More than two decades later, Reggie is Indianapolis’ Greatest Pro Basketball Star Ever. And while the Coliseum lives on, Market Square was flattened around the turn of the century, replaced by a state-of-the-art Fieldhouse that stands as a tribute to old school basketball barns. It’s also a testimony to how far the city’s first big league sports franchise has come.

But there’s still a little ways to go. Still a little “we’re from the ABA and we’ll show you” mentality resonating in all the memorabilia decorating the halls of the Fieldhouse.

The Dallas Chaparrals nee San Antonio Spurs have done their part by winning NBA titles. Now it's time for the ABA’s best franchise on and off the court to come full circle.

I have been there since Mel Daniels, Roger Brown, Freddy Lewis, Don Buse, Kevin Joyce, Bob Netolicky, Billy Keller and George McGinnis were household names in the city in the '70s.

Since Steve Stipanovich, Chuck Person and Vern Flemming were household names in the city in the '80s.

Since Mark Jackson, Dale Davis, Rik Smits and Antonio Davis were household names in the city in the '90s.

I listened on the radio when there were no television contracts, always wearing the same black socks because, that was, after all, the reason they won.

I felt the joy of the last ABA championship, over the dreaded Kentucky Colonels, (almost as dreaded as the Wildcats who, along with Purdue, cheated the unbeaten '75 Hoosiers ...).

I suffered the agony of being down 0-3 to the Utah Stars in the Western Division finals, then the ecstasy of tying the series 3-3, only to be followed by more agony when the Pacers came up short in Game 7.

I called my mom many times from college in the early '80s, before the days of round-the-clock sports news, to ask, “Did the Pacers win tonight?”

I was there in person for 95% of the home playoff games during the five Eastern Conference finals of the 1990s.

I witnessed first-hand the Miracles on Memorial Day: Rik Smits beating Shaq and the Magic with a two at the buzzer to tie up the conference finals at 2-2, Reggie beating Michael and the Bulls with a three at the buzzer to tie up the conference finals at 2-2.

I was there when Kobe Bryant single-handedly pulled out a pivotal Game 4 victory in overtime in the NBA finals, leading to Phil Jackson’s Lakers’ their first title.

I was also there when the State of Indiana decided that LA, which was up 3-1, would not win their championship at the Fieldhouse in Game 5.

Did I mention I named my dog Boomer, my nutty golden mutt, after Boomer, the nutty Pacer Panther?

So, you see, Your Honor, I’m guilty as charged. I did it and I’d do it again. I was there on the night in question, whatever night in question you’re referring to. Say whatever you want about me, call me a Pacers fan, call me Pacer Crazy. Yeah, I’m Pacer Crazy, like the hit tune of the 90s states.

Speaking of tunes, I can dance! Like Dancing Harry to "Long Tall Glasses" in the 70s. Yep, I bought the 45 single. You know I can dance, you know I can dance ...

Pacer People are supposed to be Pacer Crazy. Throw the book at me. Make it a coffee table book, which I hope with all my body and soul, will say ABA CHAMPS TO NBA CHAMPS ... YOUR INDIANA PACERS.

So there you have it, Your Honor. Do what you want. Say what you will. Call me whatever. I’m Pacer Crazy and I have no plans on looking for a cure.

Originally published in a slightly different version as Ballin's Blue and Gold Biased, which appeared on 'Ballin with Randy Boyd' on Outsports.com in May 2004.

He's No Fool, No, Siree!

2011-04-25T14:21:00.000-07:00

He rides a trike with one K, but clearly, if his wife let him, 103-year old Octavio Orduño would also be carving it up on a Trikke with two K's.

For quite some time, the oldest living cyclist in Long Beach, CA, couldn't keep his eyes off my black Trikke Tribred Pon-e at the grand opening of the new downtown bikeways on Saturday, April 23, 2011.

"He wants to swap," said a pretty lady named Helene. My Trikke for his trike, the three-wheel bike he rides around the city. Saturday, he stood atop the Pon-e like a happy young boy, then asked me to show him how its ridden, looking on with the wonderment of someone a fraction of his age.

The Trikke brings out the kid in all of us, no matter who we are and how old we get. Octavio Orduño is living proof.

Randy Boyd's Trikke Blocks

2011-04-25T08:24:00.000-07:00

Trikke Randy was the name of my first column on the Blocks about my amazing journey with the joyride of the 21st century.

Now, the journey continues with Randy Boyd's Trikke Blocks, which also includes my previous posts as Trikke Randy.

But wait, there's more! In addition to my Trikke Blocks on my author blog, you can also find me carving up Long Beach Trikkers, the local hub and club for trikkers in Long Beach, California, and TrikkeWorld Magazine, the chronicle of the carving revolution, both co-creations of myself and my good friend and fellow trikker Jeri Thompson.

What will we think of next? Stick around and find out on Trikke Blocks, now and forever at Randy Boyd's Blocks.