You are Legend

This is a departure from the usual fabrications, and various other poetic brain children I am accustomed to write. This is a farewell to my beloved 1989 Acura Legend that treated me so well, and that I treated with little to no respect.

Abernathy's Truck Salvage is now the proud owner of my former Legend. In exchange for my car, Mr. Abernathy himself gave me 5 crisp Twenties and a stiff Fifty. This is a far cry from the offer I was given by Carmax.

A couple of days ago my father and I went to sell the Legend to Carmax where we had purchased the car I drive today. I had hopes to sell the car for at least 1 monthly car payment to my father - 75 bucks. When the salesman took my father and me back into his office, he had a look on his face like someone who had accidentally insulted the school bully. He insisted that we sit down, and proceeded to tell us that he didn't normally look at the offer before he let the seller see it. Today must have been different. He had gotten a good glimpse of the car, and I had answered all of his questions about it honestly. Perhaps he had anticipated the price to be low, and in an effort to save himself from the agony of discovering the price at the same time as my father and I, he took a peek. Just before he revealed the price, he informed us that Carmax had "never not bought a car." So, in other words, we could be guaranteed not to see a Goose Egg behind the curtain. Again, reminding us that he was "the messanger" (i.e. don't shoot me) he unveiled the offer...

$5.

That's right, Carmax offered to buy my car from me, to relieve me of my burden, for under two gallons of cheap gas; for a six pack of bitter beer; for a long distance phone call just long enough to say "hello, how are you?"; for a pack of cigarettes. And the worst part about it all...we actually went through with it. It was the hilarity of the situation that made it so enticing. The fact that I would be able to tell my friends, future children/grandchildren that I once sold a car (IN 2008!) for 5 dollars was too much to resist. So we did it. Dad didn't care to stick around for the 5 dollar check, so we virtually gave the car away.

Later that day I saw past the comedy and decided that I could get more than a Biggy Sized Combo Meal for my car. I called Carmax, and I called off the deal. The next day my father and I cut through some red tape, waited in line outside the bureaucracy, and re-obtained my car, for free. I promptly called some Junkyards who were happy to purchase my car for 30x the amount Carmax offered us. Today, I said my actual farewell to the Legend as it puttered off into a field of peers. It is in a better place now. I love you, Legend.

a paradox

i know men who use logic like a shield and sword.

only - 

they attack with the shield, and defend with the sword.

my ideal

picnics. or, as the french call them, les pique-niques: chip-scooped spinach artichoke dip. melting cakes. plastic-ware and fruit tea. condensation. wrinkled red and white checkers. triangular tomato sandwiches. sundress, top hat, bare feet. ice cream in a cooler - the coldest thing for miles. delve. somewhere the mythology that ants are thieves. not today. a glance. wind pushing the trees, and the trees the wind. overly poetic atmospheres. hills, or no hills. probably a duck-filled pond, definitely not a duckbilled platypus. no need for talk above a whisper. slower-than-normal chewing. eyes catching one another on more than one occasion; purely unaccidental. subsequent caresses. connection to the outside world blocked only by the clouds and the horizon. protection. full bellies. one head in one lap. twin thoughts. two prickling stomachs. a billion butterflies. motions to a kiss. executed with perfection. a familiar mixture of saliva. they've done this before. more strawberries. always strawberries at a picnic. excited prickly regions. 2 minds, 1 thought. pure love. picnics.

irishmen

I transformed last night. 8 o'clock found me leaving the Arcade downtown with plans to go to a party in the woods. I didn't have the directions. We met at a house, played some videojuegos, drank a couple of beers, and I was even tested on my French. I think I got an A-. It was time, then, to take to the woods. I followed a friend to the forest. When we got there we didn't know many people, but they were easy to party with. Drinks were drunk, moves were danced, people were wearing frog hats. Eventually I was one of those people. Slowly the party forged ahead, and some of my company began to leave. It was getting sort of late. By midnight I knew even fewer people. I found a friend and we went outside to smoke a cigarette. For reasons I cannot describe, we both connected on a very deep, very Irish, level. Neither of us have an Irish background. We both agreed, though, that somewhere deep inside us is a repressed Irishmen desperately seeking freedom from within. There was something about the woods that night, something that helped uncage the beast. We connected, my new Irish countryman, and spoke with Irish accents and used Irish lexicons. It was like I was talking for the first time. I found myself saying things like "the likes of you!" "BOLLUCKS!", "FUUUUUCKIN 'ELL!" and "I think tha'll DO!" at the top of my lungs. We flipped our cigarette butts out, and chummily traipsed back into the party. We weren't 2 steps in when we fired off some more Irish slang, accents thicker and louder than ever. We were greeted whole heartedly by what seemed to be more blossoming Irish folk. Growls of thick green accents filled the whole house. Everyone was becoming Irish, right before our very eyes. It didn't take long to find a bottle of vodka, open it, and finish it. It was like fuel for our new Irish identities. I'm struggling to know if I found myself last night, or if I lost myself. I found something - that's for sure -  like a stranger in a very familiar land. We pressed on. An hour went by and I had completely forgotten I was an American. I wasn't an American. I was an Irishman - through and through. One by one we sniped away any trace of an American accent. Hell, English and Scottish accents were quickly smothered as well. I hated the English...

 

It was 2:00 in the morning, and I was feeling strange having a conversation with someone in my "normal" voice, like I was holding back Seamus O'Flannigan - my newborn Irish identity. I remembered who I was, and where I'd come from, and how some way - some how - Walter and I were able to see the best in ourselves, and in each other. As I write this, while a pile of Indian food digests in my stomach, I am reminded of my transformation. Swift, forceful and punctuated - just like an Irishman. I've never been to Ireland. But last night, I felt like I'd never left.