The Blog
06/03/2007 01:00 am: The Jazz Bar Confessional
I couldn't tell how long I'd been walking for. I'd left my watch and phone at home. Time didn't matter. People didn't matter. Life didn't matter. I was lost. Literally as well as metaphorically. I'd lost track of the streets, stopped counting the turns long ago. I was well out of the heart of Manhattan, that was certain.I probably could have wandered all night. A left turn instead of a right, one more street or one less, and I never would have passed it. The Jazz Bar Confessional. It was nothing more than a hole in the wall. Not even a sign in front. The sad twinkle of a piano drifted through the barest of openings in the doorway, the door seemingly ready to fall off its hinges. It lured me in.
The place was sparsely populated and dimly lit. A few patrons nursed their drinks at the bar; some others were sprawled out on sofas in the back. A jazz trio was in the middle of a set. I didn't recognize the song. It had a mellow, almost remorseful sound to it, with just a tinge of resentment. The saxophone wailed into life just as I stepped inside, but it added no liveliness to the dolorous tune of the piano.
Reds and blues were everywhere. The walls, bare and unornamented, glowed a bloody crimson in the darkness. The bar stools shone a similar hue. The bar was a vibrant red maple. The sofas radiated midnight blue. The stage lights cloaked the musicians in soft cyan. At least, that's how it should have appeared. In reality, all the colors were dulled, as if I were looking through a screen or fog.
This was a place you went to be alone. Aside from the musical trio, there were no groups here. Individuals occupied entire sofas, and empty stools between bar patrons looked uninviting. People assumed small, hunched postures, as if they intended to fade into the background. I took a seat, alone, at the far end of the bar.
The bartender gave a light nod in my direction. Something about him seemed callous, yet comforting, apathetic, yet sympathetic. He seemed like he would listen to your entire life's story without comment or reaction. He would probably call you by name, but genuinely forget the next day whether you'd been there at all and what you'd talked about. He was the perfect man to confess to.
I ordered a whiskey on the rocks. I hate whiskey; it doesn't sit well in my stomach. But it seemed appropriate for a place like this. The bartender handed it to me without a word. I took a sip, and it went down surprisingly smooth.
The jazz trio had switched songs now, but their sound still mourned and rued. Someone was saying to the bartender, "Three years, and now it's over. All the sacrifies, the effort, the compassion, all for nothing. It just wasn't worth staying for." I stopped listening. Eavesdropping on confessions violated the sanctity of this place.
I was two whiskeys in before the wellspring of my sorrows flowed forth. As the bartender cleared my glass, it burst out. I shared my pain, my loss, my woe, my sorrow, the dashed dreams, the shattered hopes, the ruined plans, the shambles that were my life. I shared my sins and crimes, my betrayals and treacheries, and those that had been done to me.
The bartendered listened with not so much as a word or gesture. When I had finished, he brought me another whiskey and simply said, "On the house." Then he left me to my thoughts.
Time passed. People came and went. My glass filled, emptied, and refilled. The jazz trio kept playing their sad, lonely music. It could have been minutes or hours before I stood, tossed a hundred dollar bill on the bar (more for the service than for the spirits) and walked out. I'm not quite sure how I found my way home, but some time later I woke up in my own bed.
I tried to retrace my steps the next day, but to no avail. To this day, I have yet to rediscover the jazz bar confessional and the salvation within.
09/07/2006 04:37 am: New content!
Read all about why being a man is so great.http://aghannor.com/content.php?id=41
06/14/2006 01:52 pm: Larry update!
If you haven't read my Chronicles of a Man Named Larry, you might want to do that first.I got an e-mail from Rick today with this link: http://www.mlive.com/news/aanews/index.ssf?/base/news-18/115029428589890.xml&coll=2
Could it be? Our very own Larry Lee? I don't know if it's the same guy or not, but it's pretty funny either way.
And yes, I am sure he did not grope or molest me. I think it would have woken me up.
04/05/2006 02:28 pm: I fear for my safety
I think we should all fear for our lives, because Homeland Security is obviously completely inept.In recent news, a Homeland Security official was arrested for trying to seduce a 14 year old "girl" who was, in fact, a detective in disguise.
Now, seriously. This whole "pretend to be a young girl to lure twisted child molesters" thing is not new. They've been doing it for years and years now. You see articles about it every month or two. And this guy's job is basically law enforcement and population protection. There is no way he can be oblivious to this! And yet he fell for it himself! Honestly, you know there are police officials out there posing as young girls just waiting to arrest you when you invite them over to play "doctor". So why in the hell would you then go and try to seduce "girls" on the Internet?
I mean, if this were some dope from Alabama wearing a wifebeater and showing off his shotgun rack, I wouldn't care. There are stupid people out there. I won't deny it. But this guy is responsible for keeping us safe from terror attacks!
I can just imagine the training they give these guys.
Homeland Security official: What's that in your bag there? It looks like a bomb.
Terrorist: No, no, that is just my playstation.
HS official: Are you sure? Playstations are rectangular and black, and that's cylindrical and has "BOMB" written on it in big red letters.
Terrorist: Ha ha, that is just my decoration because my Playstation is "the bomb"!
HS official: I don't know, this seems kind of suspicious.
Terrorist: Would I lie to you?
HS official: No, of course not! Go right ahead Mr... Ihaff Abomb.
12/29/2005 11:59 pm: Get off the road, you crackpot.
On the Road by Kerouac has got to be one of the worst books I have ever wasted my time reading.Imagine reading a typical college fratboy's blog. Now take out all the humor, make it even more boring, and you've got On the Road. The book was 300 pages of these guys jumping around from bar to jazz club to party listening to music going "Woo!" and "Yes!" while getting drunk or drugged up and trying to pick up girls. Actually, it was 75 pages of that repeated four times in different cities.
It wasn't just bad writing (though the writing WAS pretty lousy), it was also a bad concept, dull and irritating characters, and no real point or purpose (to be fair, he does develop a point by the end, but the first 270 pages or so are wholly irrelevant to that end).
The back cover of the book reads: "Pulsating with the rhythms of fifties underground America, jazz, sex, illicit drugs, and the mystery and promise of the open road, Jack Kerouac's classic novel of freedom and longing defined what it meant to be 'Beat,' and has inspired every generation since its initial publication more than forty years ago. based on Kerouac's adventures with Neal Cassady, On the Road tells the story of two friends, whose four cross-country road trips are a quest for meaning and true experience. Written with a mixture of sad-eyed naivee and wild abandon, and imbued with Kerouac's love of America, his compassion for humanity, and his sense of language as jazz, On the Road is the quintessential American vision of freedom and hope--vibrant, compelling, and full of wonder."
If by "meaning and true experience" you mean "alcohol and sex", then yes, Sal and Dean are on a quest for "meaning and true experience". If by "love of America", "compassion for humanity" and "sense of language as jazz" you mean nonsenseical jabbering and hallucinatory imagery, then yes, the book is imbued with tons of that. And if the "quintessential American vision of freedom and hope" involves ditching your wife and kids to go party in a whorehouse in Mexico, asking your aunt to wire you money because you spent all of yours on booze, and picking up hitchhikers for gas money, then yes the book is exactly that.
You think alcohol, drugs and sex are characteristic of the fifties? HELLO?! Have you looked at any college campus? If you want to read those kinds of stories, you're better off checking http://tuckermax.com. At least his stories are funny.
On the bright side, if I run out of toilet paper tomorrow I'll have 154 pieces of useless paper lying around.