SINCE YOU ASKED

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What was the most asked question from readers in response to the last entry?

“Who was that white rose from??”

Nope.

“Did you really waste a whole bottle of Pepsi like that??”

Nope.

“Hey, what do you mean by saying womankind anyway??”

No!

The most asked question was “What kind of car did you get?”

Well, since you asked, I got a Toyota Yaris.

Which immediately prompts the question…

“Is there really a bar on the corner of your street??”

Well… Yes, there is. And a liquor store directly across from the bar.

But no, that’s not the next question.

The question is “What the hell is a Yaris??”

EXACTLY what I asked the salesman as we approached it in the dealer’s lot. “Man, what the hell is a Yaris? Some kind of big mountain animal? Like a female Yak?”

He said, “Heh. Funny. Comes with a great cd/mp3 player option for just an additional $750.”

“Great. But I don’t need it, yak-man. I got me a fuckin’ 80 gb iPod!”

“Whoa! THAT is hardcore, yo!”

“Damn straight! And I know the difference between laying and lying, and getting laid and being lied to!”

So, I haggled with the sales-yak for close to an hour. Back and forth. Give and take. You scratch mine, I’ll scratch mine. I knew what I wanted and how much I was willing to pay for it when I walked in there. So haggle, faggle, wiggle, waggle, my friend. After several trips to his manager’s office to relay my bargaining positions, the wishy-washy salesman brought out the manager in person. He proceeded to yak at me for a few minutes then produced a number on a paper.

He said, “My friend, this is how much I pay for this car.” $XX,X06. “You aren’t going to let me make any profit off of this sale?”

“Hmm. You pay $XX,X06? Really?”

“Yep. $XX,X06.”

“I’ll give you $XX,X07. You can make a dollar.”

Thrown off balance by the unexpected humor in my haggle, the head-yak could only grin and agree to my offer. We both knew he was still making a profit. But at least I knew I got the price I wanted. I didn’t get the color I wanted. But I got a good deal. It’s paid for. It’s all mine. And it drives better than any mountain animal I’ve ever rode.

Now, back to that name. Yaris. Every time I mention it I get plenty of odd looks and snickers. But someone was kind enough to look for the meaning of the name and found an explanation straight from Toyota:

“The background on the Yaris name is actually really interesting. It stems from a goddess in Greek mythology, named CHARIS, who was a symbol of beauty and elegance. We put that together with the German expression of agreement, YA. We think the name symbolizes the car’s broad appeal in styling and really represents Toyota’s next generation of global cars.”

Talk about Farfegnugen! I’m ridin’ the goddess, baby! Ya! Symbolize that!

20061212blackster

THE WHITE ROSE MYSTERY

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At lunchtime I had to get out of the office. I hopped into my new car and drove off into the sunset. Well… not exactly. But I did hightail it out of there! It’s only Monday and I already felt the need to get away from people at work. Not all of them, of course. There are a few that I’d like to get closer to, but that will only land me in the HR office and the unemployment line.

I ended up going home. There was no particular reason to go there. It just felt safe to do so. I felt like I wasn’t really supposed to be there. But it was alright because it was my home. I may have startled a few elves and gremlins by walking in unexpectedly at midday. But the guinea pigs were happy to see me. I think. I didn’t know what the hell I went there for. So, I had a glass of wine and a handful of those little fish crackers, then headed back to the office.

But before going back, I went out the front door to check the mail. I had parked my new car in the back and came in through the kitchen door. I went out the living room door to the mailbox. In front of the house is a low brick wall surrounding what should be the front yard area but is all concrete. (Talk about easy to mow in the summer!) There, lying on the little wall, in the bright sunshine, was a long-stemmed white rose. Yes, just lying there. I have no idea who laid it there. And I just checked dictionary.com to make sure I was using “lay” and “lie” correctly. But what I really intended was to use the word “laid” in this entry. It seems like the appropriate thing to do after the last “hardcore” entry.

All sexual intent aside, why was this rose lying on my wall? Who laid it there? And why did they leave a white one?

Perhaps it wasn’t intended for me. Nobody lays me these days. I mean, nobody leaves roses for me these days. Maybe some love-struck Don Juan had a dozen of them delivered to his girlfriend of less than a month, not sending roses for fear of appearing to come on too strong. And maybe a strong December gust blew this one rose clear of the bunch and landed it in front of my house. Then some casual fellow who was meandering to the bar on the corner picked it up and laid it on the wall, unthinkingly mindful that the delicate flower did not get trampled on the sidewalk.

Or maybe… the guy walking to the bar just presented white roses to his sister down the street who he hadn’t spoken to in years because she hates his guts due to the fact that he’s an alcoholic bum. He was feeling sappy with the holidays upon us, forewent (foregoed? forlaid?) a bottle or two and splurged on the dozen roses. But as he nervously approached his sister’s door he realized that the florist miscounted and gave him thirteen roses instead of twelve. Since thirteen is an unlucky number, and he needed all the luck he could get to patch things up with his sister, he quickly tossed one out. Then another fellow on his way to the bar picked it off the sidewalk and laid it on my wall.

Or maybe… someone DID intend it for me! What then? What is it all about?

Is someone trying to make peace with me? Then why did they leave it on my wall and not right up on my porch? Were they trying to make peace but not a whole lot of it? Just a quasi-peace?

What if it’s something weird and twisted? There have been a few “incidents” around my house. In the summer, someone snapped off one of my sunflowers and left it lying on the wall. Also, someone picked off one of my tomatoes from my bucket garden, took a big juicy bite out of it and left the gasping carcass on the wall. That was creepy almost along the lines of finding a horse head in my bed. So what if this is another weird incident? I believe that ancient Druidic folklore describes the leaving a single white rose as a sign of intent to sacrifice a male virgin on New Year’s Eve. Since it’s been so long since I’ve lain (lien? lion?) with womankind, maybe I’m giving off a virgin vibe! What can I do? Who can I ask for help? Who would ever believe me?

Or maybe… it’s from an alcoholic brother that I didn’t know I had! And maybe his real intent is not to make peace but to symbolize that I am an asshole of a brother for not knowing that he didn’t exist and he really wanted to leave a big black rose but couldn’t find one this time of the year because it’s Christmas and everyone and their brothers are sending big black roses to each other. THAT is probably what this is all about.

So… in honor of my long lost, alcoholic brother to whom I have been an asshole, I emptied a bottle of Pepsi, filled it with some water, shoved the rose in it and set it on my porch where the neighbors can all see it and ask, “What the hell is that white rose doing there?”

20061211whiterose

I Went Hardcore

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I went hardcore. That’s right. I crossed the line. I went too far this time. There is no going back. I could never be the same now even if I tried to go back. Not now that I’ve gone and done this. I’m still shaking my head at myself. I almost can’t believe that I went and did what I did. I couldn’t resist. When something that sexy is tantalizingly paraded before me, I can’t hold back, especially given my particular propensities. I know I probably shouldn’t have done this. There are certain ramifications and consequences that concern me now. I know I’ll end up paying for this one day. But I just couldn’t help myself! Do you have any idea what it’s been like to live with all of this locked up inside me? I knew I would cross this line sooner or later. I knew I’d reach out and touch the forbidden fruit. I knew I’d shamelessly embrace it one day. It’s as if it were written in the stars. This was my destiny. There is no other way for me to exist, really. I had to do this. I was driven to it by the fire that burns within my genes (jeans?). It couldn’t be prevented. And frankly, I’m happy I did it! I’ll do it again one day if need be.

So, let me confess what I did. I’ll tell all of you right here on this website. I’ll admit it to the whole world right here on the Internet. I have no pride anymore.

And now the confession:

I BOUGHT AN 80GB Ipod TODAY.

It’s true. That’s how hardcore I am – about my MUSIC mofo! And yes, there are consequences! And I will be paying for this! But I had to do it. My 20GB iPod is full. How could I exist without the ability to carry ALL my music (and movies too now) with me everywhere? Merry (early) Christmas to me!

*This entry is RATED X-mas.

HELLO AGAIN, ADAM

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Last night I went to an open mic event at a writers group in the Hudson Valley in New York. It’s a monthly event. This is the third time I’ve been there to read. The meeting is held nearly 80 miles from where I live. But with all the driving I’ve done in my life, 80 miles is a mere jaunt across town. I like the virtual anonymity of the group. No one knows me. No one remembers my name. There are at least 20 or more writers who sign up to read each month. Some are very good. Some show signs of promise. Some… well you end up wishing that a few would run out the back door and dive into the chilly Hudson River. Each reader is allowed five minutes. They say that everyone gets 15 minutes of fame in their life. I drive over an hour for 5.

Participating in the Hudson Valley writers group (and another group in the Lehigh Valley in Pennsylvania) has become part of my better writing strategy. It has been good to brush shoulders with several talented published writers. The encouragement and feedback after reading is also helpful. For instance, even though no one remembered my name, a few did remember that at last month’s meeting I read a piece that I wrote in 2004 while my father was suffering with cancer. It was called “It’s Not Like the Movies.”

My opportunity to read was nearly foiled last night. As I entered the town in which the meeting is held I looked at the passenger seat of my car and realized that I forgot my reading material at home! In my hurry to get out the door and on my way, I forgot to grab the folder with my printed article. My heart sank and I almost jammed on the breaks in the middle of the main street. But a thought came to my mind. I remembered that the writers group has an office in the building where they meet. They would most likely have internet access. Backup copies of my writings are stored on a top secret web server. Thankfully, I uploaded the latest revision of the article I intended to read. With a little luck the group’s director would allow me to use their computer to access and print the article. Luck was with me and I was able to print it. Ah! The wonders of modern technology! Forget your papers at home and they will meet you 80 miles away in a matter of minutes!

The article I read is titled “Adam.” Some of you might remember it. I wrote it at 4 AM after sitting in a New Jersey bar all night. One thing I noticed just before I got up to read last night was that this article was originally written on February 14, 2003 – Valentine’s Day. How appropriate! For those who would like to read it again and for those who did not read this article before, I am including it here. I remember when I first wrote this, one good friend of mine emailed me and asked, “Are you okay? That was pretty intense!” I told her then, “Yes, I’m okay. It’s the other guy in the story that wasn’t.” Funny how life goes. At this time in my life, over the past few months, I’ve become “the other guy” again in certain respects. I’ve become “Adam” to a certain degree. If you ask if I’m okay, I’ll still say, “Yes.” But I might not be able to answer so quickly and confidently right now. I guess what I should say is, “I will be okay.” These things have a way of working themselves out.

Read the original “Adam” article here.

GIVE ME RAGE

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Do you know what band I miss? I miss Rage Against the Machine. I know that Audioslave is the same band with a different singer. But it’s really not the SAME band. There’s something missing in Audioslave. It’s not in the musicianship. Tom Morrell is still amazing. Chris Cornell is one of the best rock vocalists ever. The musical ability of Audioslave is tremendous.

Well, let me qualify what I just said. Audioslave’s musicianship is tremendous. But it’s lacking something. I think that something is the RAGE. Audioslave is all sanitized and warm and fuzzy compared to Rage Against the Machine. For instance, “Born of a Broken Man” by Rage just played on my iTunes. The guitar riff, the vocal passion, the urgency of the song were all intense. Compare that with “Doesn’t Remind Me” by Audioslave. See what I’m saying? “Doesn’t Remind Me” is nice. It’s warm. I can relate to it. How many times in my life do things remind me of some lost love or some long gone circumstance that I wished never passed? Yeah, I can relate to the idea of liking some things in life because they DO NOT remind me of anything. That’s nice. But how does that compare with a song like “Broken Man” with lyrics such as these:

My fears hunt me down
Capturing my memories
The frontier of loss
They try to escape across the street where
Jesus stripped bare
And raped the spirit he was supposed to nurture
In the name of my
In the name of my

Born of a broken man
But not a broken man
Born of a broken man
Never a broken man

No, I don’t completely understand the complete meaning of the song. But I FEEL it. “My fears hunt me down, capturing my memories.” In my opinion, and that is all this article is about, I’d rather be hunted down by my fears and FEEL the affect of that than to be temporarily numbed by thinking of things that don’t remind me of anything that I FEEL. Do you see what I’m saying?

Just as I’d rather listen to Rage Against the Machine and lament their break up than listen to Audioslave, I’d rather FEEL something in my existence in this passage we tenderly refer to as LIFE. I’d rather feel the pain and the fears, the cutting and bleeding. I’d rather bang my head along with Rage than smile along with their new incarnation. I want something that’s relevant. I want something that feels like it matters. I want the feeling of the sword through my chest as I spit in my enemy’s eye just before giving up the ghost. I want THAT more than I want to sit in my slippers and robe and collect my pension one day.

All of this talk reminds me of some obscure piece I wrote almost a year ago after drinking. I admit, I was driving too. Please hold your Mothers Against Drunk Drivers lectures. Let’s stick to the point here. What the hell is the point? Oh yeah, getting drunk. No, the point is FEELING something, something that MATTERS. Here’s what I wrote (and I apologize in advance for lacking the necessary writing ability to make what I want to say clearer):

Sometimes you just have to punch the person next to you in the inside of their arm so goddamn hard that they yell, ‘What the fuck did you do that for??’, then smoke a big joint and listen to Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon” with headphones and learn what dysfunction can teach you.

Is the status quo all that it’s cracked up to be? Is politically correct always correct? Fuck. I don’t think so.

There’s something to learn from CHAOS, something of order in the disorder. Something to claw into. Something to rip your heart open and implant something of essence.

Just drink your big ol’ bottle of booze, hop in your car and drive your brain right out of your skull. (Just make sure you only kill yourself, dick.)

Or maybe you just need to crank up some Madonna and dance until you bleed, slam yourself into a wall and convulse in a fit of laughter.

See what I’m saying? It’s the correctness of it all that’s fucked up. It’s phoney. It’s bullshit. I’m so tired of it. I’m so tired of LIFE AS USUAL. I’d rather have the chaos. I’d rather have THE RAGE. At least then there’s the possibility of something significant, something that MATTERS. Is it possible that society is so scared that it has insulated itself from CHAOS and DYSFUNCTION? Have we really tricked ourselves into believing that politically correct is actually correct? Have we merely LABELED that which we don’t understand and that which prevents the system from functioning the way we have grown accustomed to? Aw! To hell with that! That precludes PASSION. Without passion what can you feel? NOTHING. And that is exactly the point! Give me passion. Give me chaos. Give me rage. Give it to me any day, especially TODAY.

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