Giants and Indians for Marianne

Abiyoyo is the story of a young boy (guitarist) and his father (magician) who get kicked out of their town and come back to save the town from a horrible giant, who eats cow, sheep and shit (well, not actual shit as in number two, but shit as in stuff. One might wonder why I just wouldn't say "stuff". Well, my saying "shit" is more for emphasis and the byproduct of a healthy Queens upbringing (we swear...a lot) than for any other reason). The father and his son (guitarist) are accepted back into the town and everyone sings

A-bi-yo-yo
A-bi-yo-yo

etc, etc...Until, at the age of thirty four they almost piss their pants laughing and one of their friends , trying to keep his cool, ends up crying a single tear like the sanitation dump Indian from the commercials in the seventies.

Life should be full of days and nights where your cheek muscles hurt from laughing with people you love.

Sad part is?

your cheeks wouldn't hurt if you laughed at other times. If your laugh muscles were worked out more often.

I can frown like a champ. The space between my eyebrows looks like the grand canyon. I scrunch them up sooo much that if you massage that space, like one might rub the underbelly of an alligator, or like a boy playing guitar to a giant with a funny name, I instantly fall asleep.

I carry my tension there like grocery bags after a month of no shopping. Won't somebody give me a pimply faced teenager or a slower functioning slightly retarded individual to carry my bags?

Oh to be that pimply faced teenager, full of angst, beating it in his room and wishing that somebody loved him, again. Things were so easy.

I hadn't been pushed around, beat up, and sometimes fucked in the ass by the huge (pronounced Uge like a northerner, not hUge like someone who speaks proper English) donkey cock of life. Ouch.

Life gets a bit tougher, but also, and hopefully, full of more fun.

It should be pretty simple. It really is. Be happy.

In fact, we men folk have it even easier than the ladies we know as far as I can tell. We can't win the arguments.Shouldn't even try.

We should all know that the women that love us are at least twice as smart as we are. It works out well that way.

Ladies, therefore, have a lot more concerns. Like wearing a matching outfit.Learning that proper skin care is important, that beer should not be consumed EVERY evening and that the hardened crust that forms on top when you don't close the toothpaste tube is not "Nature's cap".

Really, men are very simple. It boils down to three questions for us...

1. Will we eat?
2. Will we fuck?
3. Will it be warm?

If the answer to those questions are yes...we have a winner. But really? We would be fine being in Helsinki in February if it meant bumpin' uglies with a large pie and a six pack.

Point? Gals make more sense, I am going to listen and go where is good for me.

I'll love, honor and even obey. I have fucked up and learned. I will charge the gates of hell with only a spork to stave off the minions of hell, climb a mountain in the winter, in white out conditions and have to shit in a bag, or even listen to side two of Journey's greatest hits where they put only filler and songs from the little known 2001 album "Arrival" in order to be happy at hope.

Goal? No more hurtin' cheeks, a few more laugh lines than wrinkles and more than a feeling like when I see my Marianne walking away.

On this day like any other...Part 3

This was probably the best Valentines day that I have had in years. Low Key. No heartaches on my mind ('cept maybe the few little tinges of thinking of past Valentine's days) and a general bounce in my step.

Yes things are coming up Tommy.

I was told this evening, by my date, that I don't take as much joy in holidays as I should. I had never really thought that. I suppose that may take years of work to undo.

Most holidays are of a religious sort. I am not a very religious man. Even those with religious connotations have been de-mystified to the point that the religious and spiritual aspects are buried underneath mounds of commercialism. I defy anyone to tell me that Christmas doesn't seem to be one long Super Bowl commercial, or that the Cadbury bunny doesn't seem the bigger part of Easter than the fact that it is the day that created ALL Christian religions.

Religion is on my mind and always at the heart of the matter. I grew up son of a former nun and was taught to take stock in god, and Jesus everyday. It didn't matter that it usually brought me little gratification, or that I really never believed that someone could rise from the dead, or much less, be born to a woman who never had sex.

CANNOT HAPPEN.

Joseph most definitely porked the supposed Virgin Mary. Whether he was Jesus' father or not, he most definitely porked her. and somebody porked her to make Jesus.

And you know what?

There is nothing wrong with that. She was doing what she was created to do. I have no problem with Mary having sex and then having a baby from that sex and he going on to be the most influential person in the history of the world. He could have been conceived doggie style and that is okay too.

At my Uncle Bruce's funeral, one of my Aunt's made a comment about my young cousin Sean becoming a Priest. Kid is like 10 years old. My reply? "Is he gay?" This seriously offended my Aunt and she said he is not. She also accused me of being a homophobic. Which I also am not. My cousin Chad is gay, out and one of the coolest guys you're going to meet. friendly and affable. I just happen to think that if you are gay, and therefore imbued with a deep self hate by a religion that tells you that what you feel is wrong, then fuck it, become a Priest. Then, nobody will question why you are not married, not bagging chicks, or don't have a girlfriend.

My cousin Steve is the most non-gay looking guy you will ever meet, but people are asking his mom if he is, because he not married at 35. Perhaps the problem is not that he craves cock over wang-dang-sweet pootang, but that he doesn't want to get married.

Me, I would probably tell him that he ought to try some cock if he can't find a girl he likes...but only because I like to fuck with him.

In the church during his dad's funeral, I found myself thinking about the priests. What would cause someone to want to do that? I thought of a few reasons.

One-They are gay and can't admit that to their Catholic families.

Two-The are failed rock stars and megalomaniacs who need a captive audience to give them the spotlight that they so richly deserve.

Three-they thought it would be cool to go against their very nature and the apply very bizarre "no sex for priests rule" to their lives. Somebody tell me why priests can't marry please.

With that said, I still find that in my moments of need, I fall back to thinking of a god I don't really believe in and hoping that he will help me find a parking space close to the door of the Harris Teeter, so I won't have to push my grocery cart very far.

My Aunt Noreen (I have 6 Aunts on my mom's side) asked me why I wasn't saying the Hail Mary during the ceremonies for my Grandma. She asked if I forgot it. Mind you, this was in reference to the Rosary, a Catholic ritual where you cram as many prayers into a short period of time as possible while running your hands over beads much like those thrown at Mardi Gras parades. Almost as much fun except nobody shows you their tits.

I decided to pray out loud with my family for the first time in about 15 years. More to support them than for any deep beliefs that I have. It hurts nothing, and like very few rock and roll songs, I know all the words, so why the fuck not.

So St. Valentine you must have buddied up St Jude for me this past year. Thanks, things have worked out well. For you I offer this up.

Hail Mary, full of grace
thanks a lot for having a kid
while I believe you had sex
lots of people believe that an angel mystically inseminated you through your ear
and I respect that
thanks for raising a pretty cool son
he has made a lot of people's lives better
and though he would probably be sad to hear of the hurt that has been done in his name
you did a damn fine job
I hope this message finds you well
and...if you had anything to do with it, thanks for sending love my way
please send some to everyone else
and help Eric Mangini lead the Jets to a Super Bowl Victory
Now and at the hour of our death

Amen.

Take me home, country road

Long drives have been a part of my life as long as I can remember. My Mom was from Pittsburgh PA, and as Ca-Tho-Lic as one can possibly be. For those who aren't sure what that means, it means that my grandparents were down with the Roman Catholic Church's ban on birth control (If I am not mistaken, this is due to the fact that somewhere in the bible there is a blurb about it being a sin to "spill the seed")

The result? 10 children. That's right, my mom has 9 brothers and sisters. The effect this has when your mom moves to NYC to raise you and 7 of her siblings, and 20 of your 26 cousins stay in the Pittsburgh area? 8 hour car rides AT LEAST 2 times a year for 35 years.

As a result, I am well versed in the language of the road. Specifically, the Pennsylvania Turnpike and its various tributaries which lead from Brooklyn, NY.

For those of you who have never driven the Penn Turnpike...it is maybe the most boring of rides in the western hemisphere. As I was told at this past weekend, my thinking about the road could be due to the fact that I have driven the road, by a conservative estimate, 150 times, but feels like more than 1000.

I knew as a kid that we were going to drive out of NYC, probably stop at Midway/Bethel (yes folks, not a lot of creativity in the name of this place, it is midway between Allentown and Harrisburg) and go to the Midway Diner.

What I remember most about the Midway Diner is that it seemed, as a child, to be the place that time forgot. What does that mean, you ask? Well, it means that the wood paneling had a 1950's sheen to it. The bathrooms looked like those installed in public schools during the Roosevelt era. You know, the urinals built into the wall that run to the floor as opposed to today’s wall mounted models. There was vending machine where you could purchase aspirin, gum and condoms. I recall be especially intrigued by the "French Tickler" (which I finally purchased after many years of curiousity and was sorely disappointed) That new fangled inventions such as "paper towels" and "hand soap" were viewed by the management to be something that city folk and apostates used and were eschewed.

What was in their place? Well there was an old towel that was attached to a loop. You would pull down the towel to get a clean 6 inch section. I assumed (and prayed) that the box it was attached to contained some ancient disinfecting device. (note, the device, while similar to the one below, was made of metal which seemed the height of soviet technology and the towel itself, while having the blue lines, was not white as you see. Years of use had helped it achieve a more cream or eggshell color.)




Soft soap was replaced with something resembling Ajax or Comet. You would hit the dispenser and instead of dispensing out a bit of soothing soap, a powdery mess would be expelled into your palm. Imagine the dismay of a young kid when, in an attempt to lather and properly wash, he must first put his hands through a ritual usually reserved for All Clad cookware and Bathtubs.



I stopped washing my hands at midway, unless accompanied by my father to the bathroom, or upon having done number 2. I figured that if I only went pee-pee, my dick wasn't all that dirty and I could always crap at the Jim Thorpe, All American Restaurant in Carlisle.



That's right folks, the next big stop was always Carlisle, where Jim Thorpe (who as a young boy was sent to Carlisle's Indian School) everyone’s favorite Indian Olympian held the keys to my young bowels. There a young man could defecate in peace. Well...sort of. You see, truckers (and this was most definitely a truck stop) tend to drink A LOT of coffee. Coffee, for those of you who have never had the unfortunate experience of visiting a Starbucks bathroom, is a laxative.

One time, I was sitting in one of the two stalls at the All American, and heard a series of powerful, commanding farts emanating from the stall next to me that I was afraid the man in there might be losing some valuable vital organs out of his ass. The capper was that after the farting subsided, I heard an almost inaudible "ow". Had I not been finished, I may have shit my pants laughing.

For years, whenever I am in a bathroom alone, and a friend walks in, I have attempted to recreate this fine moment of my youth by making fart sounds and following them up with an "ow". It almost always elicits a laugh. Truckers are an interesting lot.

The Jim Thorpe was also the place where my ex-wife and I, many years later, were having breakfast and an extremely tall trucker came over and jokingly exclaimed that we reminded him of Mutt&Jeff.(I am six foot five and my Nicole was five foot six) We all laughed and he went on to tell us how his ex wife was five foot nothing. We smiled. He then told us, as his smile faded, that the fucking whore left him when he was in the hospital and he hopes she burns in hell. It was at this point we bid him good day.

Years later, Nicole and I pulled into the parking lot for that same restaurant, in the middle of the night. The sign was there, but the building was gone. A black empty void in its place.

After Carlisle, it was onto the Penn Turnpike. 3 or 4 hours of nothing except rest stops and tunnels. Three tunnels and then we were in the 'Burgh. Taking I376 through Monroeville and getting off at Churchill and making our way to Grandma's house. Then, hopefully, on to see my cousin Steve, Aunt Carol and Uncle Bruce.


These past two weeks, I have been in Pittsburgh twice. I haven't visited so much in recent years. Strange going there now that Grandma and Uncle Bruce are gone. The road was a little more interesting this time, new and untraveled by me. I now drive from the south, not from NYC. I have said goodbye to two people whom I loved and cared about deeply and who had a major impact on my life, just like the road to Pittsburgh.

The path ahead is a new one, the old stops are no longer available, some of the people I used to visit also. I have a new traveling partner, a new point of origin and a new car. Is that the sun I see rising?

(Cue sappy music...I need to take a crap)

Play it again Sam...

Not that this is a romantic post. It's been a long time since I graced this page with anything new and interesting. I suppose I will begin with an update.

I am still living in Rallywood , North Cackalackee. I buried my grandmother two weeks ago and am going to drive to Pittsburgh tonight for my uncles funeral. I am feeling a bit surrounded by death. It's affecting my sleep and life in general.

Both of them were very important influences on my life. They are already sorely missed. Time is so precious. It is really easy to forget that important little nugget I think.

So there it is, a little something off of my chest. Maybe I will be back again soon. As time goes by.