Introduction: Way back when, in high school to be precise, my friends and I used to while away the time by writing silly things to each other and passing them back and forth. I’ve noticed that my blog, while mostly created by me, is also a great forum for writing silly things to your friends and hoping you won’t get caught in the process. And it got me thinking about the actual content of what I used to write in those illicit notes. My fondest was the nonsensical phrases I used to write that began with, “Life is like a hot cup of java…” I started off rationally, with “Life is like a hot cup of java, it is a lot less bitter when you sweeten it.” Trite sentiment, no doubt, but it was to progress into much sillier territory by year’s end, surreal and subversive. Something like this: “Life is like a cup of java, spill it on your crotch and you’ll cry like a little baby.” Now, if I may show how forward-thinking I was, this was before the McDonald’s lawsuit, before Starbucks was as ubiquitous as 7-11, and before Java was a language. Occasionally, I’d write, “Life is like a hot cup of joe…,” but this led to more confusion than was necessary, so I’m going to stick with java. As I think of them, I’m going to add them here in my blog. You may not find them the least funny or thought provoking, but that’s okay, since I think you dress funny. “Life is like a hot cup of java, dark and sweet, like my men.”
It took nearly 4 months for an unofficial response to Fickled Pink by my former manager, Suzanne. I believe that the more popular search engines are now listing my site in reference to the company name, “Pinkhaus.” Initially, as I wrote the essay, I wondered how coy I should be in presenting the parties named. I was going to change the names to protect the innocent, but then I concluded that no innocent parties were involved. This was my story about my life, written with my voice. Should I have included a disclaimer stating that the essay was written with bias and makes me look better and the others tarnished from the bright light that is the whole truth? Duh. This is my blog. Let them tell their side of the story on their site. It should be readily apparent by any and all onlookers to my site, and that particular essay, that I am quite the slacker. I could have tried harder to keep my job. In fact, it was financially foolish not to try. I am a stubborn, pigheaded person. I believe this is readily apparent in my writing. So was I surprised by the response that Suzanne sent to me, one weekend, out of the blue? Well, yes and no. Yes, but only because of the timing of it? Why not weeks before or a year later? What made her read that particular piece then? As noted, I assume it was because she did a keyword search, and was surprised to find my web address. Why do a keyword search for her own company? Because they have just undertaken a restructuring of their website. The beginning of that restructuring was noted in
I’m getting my car inspected at the local Pep-Boys, so I go into the retail section and look for some sort of clever sticker that I can apply to my LeBarge. Currently, the only ornamentation of any kind is an AARP sticker warning the young hoodlums not to steal my car. Patriotism is the theme of the current bunch of stickers. This doesn’t surprise me, but I gotta be different, so no flags, no “America will kick yer Arab-ass,” no “God Bless our Godblessed Ameri-God-ca” for me. I admit the Eurostyle sticker with black “USA” type surrounded by a white oval did intrigue me, but these, too, are very over used these days, with 1 of every 3 cars around here displaying the Vermont “VT” version of these things. Oh, yeah, guys, it is so amazing that you drove 4 hours into a bordering state to go skiing. I’m so impressed. Anyway, the other stickers are all Harley-Davidson, mag-wheel, super-car type things, and I’m just not into that, despite having pure American V8 power under my hood. Shit, I’d lose all those sucka, suped-up tiny Jap cars in no time, but, check it, I ain’t about that. If they had a Welsh-flag sticker, I’d put that on my car. My old VW had one. I’m moderately proud of my WASPish geneology, plus the Welsh flag has a really cool red griffin on it. It gives me some street cred to, since everyone knows that the Welsh were trodden upon by the English, but there was no Welsh flag. Surprisingly, nothing with the Yankees, either. The Yankees are my biggest chink in my dare-to-be-different armor. Boy, it sure is difficult to be a fan of one of the most successful baseball teams of all times. But part of my blood is pin-striped blue, so I don’t fight it. Yankees rule, but not at Pep-Boys. So Pep-Boys fails me, an iconoclast looking for some sort of mass-produced item to represent my uniqueness. Damn them. What will I ever put on my car to share with the world how clever and different I am? Oh, wait, I know I’ve got one of those Apple Computer stickers around here. That’ll do.
I am now the proud owner of a simply huge 1984 Buick LeSabre, which, with the inspiration from my friend, Erick, I have christened LeBarge. The car, a gift from my grandmother, costs over $1600 for me to insure per year with nothing but the basic coverage for New York State. My license is clean and my driving record is almost so, but none of that information matters, since I was given this rate before my records were looked up. This is the basic going rate for a new customer. My Volkswagon, which I still owe someone money for, was junked after the right front axle fell off. Right into the road. This caused no injury or property damage, so I was pretty damned lucky there, and the new LeBarge, as noted, was a gift, so all in all I made out on the change. And now, 38 people can ride with me in American-style comfort, in my 4-gallons-to-the-mile Buick. And, ha! my trunk is bigger than your pitiful SUV. I’m thinking of painting LeBarge metallic-purple or orange. Then maybe I’ll get a large feathered hat to wear while driving. Those bouncy suspension-thingies that I see on all those urban music videos are also on the list. You can’t stop me. Issa free country, innit?
A quick discovery: Vanilla Coke sucks.