In addition to my full time job at the art factory with benefits, 401K and reserved parking, I am now officially a freelance automotive journalist for a range of auto websites. I can't tell you what sites, because they haven't made that clear to me at this time. You think I care? I'd write for Taliban Car and Driver.
I am aware that Ben posted an April Fool's day article suggesting that I'm moving on to greener, CO2 emitting pastures, and I have to admit, I was swept away in the fantasy.
Well, thank you Ben for articulating a dream I was too timid to name. It's a small thing. If you're interested, I'll let you know when my articles get published. I'll be writing primarily on the most mundane elements of car ownership, such as stick shifts and safety belts, in a tone reserved for the 7th grade audio-visual lab, circa 1972. Not complaining. Yet.
How it happened: Ethan sent me the post from craigslist, Matthew Kennedy nudged and coached me through the process. He reminded me to follow up after a week of no reply, even though I didn't want to. Then BAM! they sent me an application. I filled it out, I wrote an article on how to change your oil. In addition, I submitted the previous post as writing sample number 2. Twelve hours after I hit send, they sent me an email welcoming me to the company.
I am keeping my present art career as it is. I am also going to keep up the blogitude.
This job is not going to get me a new gate for the mansion, or even a fake rock to hide the key. The pay is measured in cheetos. As a car nut, I see this as a paid education and suddenly all the twists and turns of my life thus far seem to make a little more sense right now. The message I'm getting is, stay open, even if your heart can't seem to see past lunch. I have all of you, my friends to thank for it. Friendship is the free exchange of support and inspiration, and in this area, I am a wealthy man.
*****
For your listening pleasure, Cake.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Namaste, Asshole
Sometimes, just to uncoil my Kundalini, I go to a converted warehouse on the west side, off of Bundy, behind the Roger Dunn Golf Shop. I meditate at Siddha Yoga.
You park on the roof and only on the roof. If you park elsewhere, you will loose your shaktipat when you walk out of the mother ship of bliss to find that your car has been towed. Apparently Siddha Yoga people can’t align their carbon burning vessels properly on the tarmac and have thus infuriated their neighbors.
I like this place because it’s commitment free. No contracts to sign, no service to perform, no need to go door to door, work the airport, or jangle your tambourine at the Farmer's Market - just a friendly come as you are vibe. Newcomers can go to the newcomer table for Q and A and the world’s most delicious cookies. This is not a superlative I’m tossing around like last season’s sari. If they wanted to, they could easily finance the entire operation from the sale of these cookies. Supposedly they are vegan, organic and blah blah, but I detect notes of bacon in them.
The cookies are the primary draw, and the meditation is a decent by product. I can chant Sanskrit phrases I don’t understand at home, but I’ll never make cookies this good.
When you walk in, what you are really doing is participating in HEAVEN: THE RAINBOW DRESS REHEARSAL. You won’t be greeted by some catty twenty something in an 80s potpourri of blindness and shoes bought on credit like at Fred Segal. Here, a wizened soul, in a waterfall of loving color and open toed sandals greets you with warmth and anticipation as if you are arriving from a harrowing, centuries-long journey. I give them the devil horns. They’re cool with anything.
I head straight to the back where the eats hole is situated. It’s vegan world back there, but last week they served an incredible pizza selection. It blew the regulars away, and me too. I was expecting chick peas and echinacea, but what we got were cornmeal pizzas from Krishna’s own wood fired oven.
This famous hair stylist is a regular pracitioner. I try to avoid him because his peace and love aura is a little smug for my taste, but he is a good friend of my friend, Heather, so I have to rap with him before the cosmic ho-down.
At five minutes ‘til pranayamathon, someone walks up and down the corridor ringing a bell to signify that the medi-jam is about to blow up and that we’d better empty out all of our holes, take off our shoes and get comfortable for the rock-tastic ride to the infinite.
We all shuffle in to the sanctuary in silence. The sitar is already blazing, along with the drums, the harmonium and the other chanters. The opening chant is in Sanskrit and projected clearly with translations. I go with it, and I sway with the rhythm even though I look and feel like a platinum club member, frequent flyer on the Magic Bus.
There is a brief announcement followed by a reading. This is the part where I tune out. I don’t much care for readings, particularly when delivered in breathy awareness, with eager anticipation of the spiritual punch line. Laughing within – one hand clapping like a mutha.
At some point in the parade of symbols, a lady, usually the white kind, wearing a sari, comes from the back with a plate full of candles to light another set of candles. It is not mandatory, but it seems to me that you must follow her with your gaze when she comes around, otherwise something terrible could happen to you. I do it because I’m not here to fuck with the program or to innovate, just saying yes to everything.
Then the lights dim and we begin the high-production value, hour-long chanting session followed by 30 minutes of meditation. The chant usually translates into Oh Guru, light my candle, or I want to know you – your basic stuff brought back to the 4/4 time world by George Harrison.
It’s the sitar and all the other instrumentation that really gets me. They start slowly and almost imperceptibly build up to this maddening hindu jazz Temple of Doom crescendo that makes me feel like a rhesus monkey hopped up on goof balls. It takes all my will power not to jitterbug. Many many times, tears have streamed down my face from the sheer elation generated within the room and I’m surprised more people are not moshing/levitating, but just lightly swaying like tranquilized palms in a breeze. I can’t help but be reminded of the time I saw Fugazi perform at the Watsonville Vets Hall. The force of the music was so pure and clear that I bawled standing on a bench next to Tara Jepsen. These Siddha Yoga guys should take it on the road.
They take you to this peak of whateverness, and then they gradually take you down down down to meditation city. I find the come down sad and the meditation boring. It’s thirty minutes of getting to the oneness, and last time, I spent most of it envisioning my next orgy.
I’m relieved when the wake up chime starts jingling and the lights gradually come up. Anyone is welcome to kiss the feet of the big statue. I get to the shoe rack before someone decides to go home in my leather dress shoes. Heather told me that once someone took her shoes. I guess meditation can also cause amnesia.
I don’t feel transformed, I don’t feel any more closer to the universe, and I certainly am not closer to liking the countless photos of the guru ecstatically meditating on a block of ice in the mountains. But I do feel that it’s worth it. One day, I’ll be whacked in the back of the head by Ganesh’s trunk, but for the time being, I’m going to look busy with the others.
You park on the roof and only on the roof. If you park elsewhere, you will loose your shaktipat when you walk out of the mother ship of bliss to find that your car has been towed. Apparently Siddha Yoga people can’t align their carbon burning vessels properly on the tarmac and have thus infuriated their neighbors.
I like this place because it’s commitment free. No contracts to sign, no service to perform, no need to go door to door, work the airport, or jangle your tambourine at the Farmer's Market - just a friendly come as you are vibe. Newcomers can go to the newcomer table for Q and A and the world’s most delicious cookies. This is not a superlative I’m tossing around like last season’s sari. If they wanted to, they could easily finance the entire operation from the sale of these cookies. Supposedly they are vegan, organic and blah blah, but I detect notes of bacon in them.
The cookies are the primary draw, and the meditation is a decent by product. I can chant Sanskrit phrases I don’t understand at home, but I’ll never make cookies this good.
When you walk in, what you are really doing is participating in HEAVEN: THE RAINBOW DRESS REHEARSAL. You won’t be greeted by some catty twenty something in an 80s potpourri of blindness and shoes bought on credit like at Fred Segal. Here, a wizened soul, in a waterfall of loving color and open toed sandals greets you with warmth and anticipation as if you are arriving from a harrowing, centuries-long journey. I give them the devil horns. They’re cool with anything.
I head straight to the back where the eats hole is situated. It’s vegan world back there, but last week they served an incredible pizza selection. It blew the regulars away, and me too. I was expecting chick peas and echinacea, but what we got were cornmeal pizzas from Krishna’s own wood fired oven.
This famous hair stylist is a regular pracitioner. I try to avoid him because his peace and love aura is a little smug for my taste, but he is a good friend of my friend, Heather, so I have to rap with him before the cosmic ho-down.
At five minutes ‘til pranayamathon, someone walks up and down the corridor ringing a bell to signify that the medi-jam is about to blow up and that we’d better empty out all of our holes, take off our shoes and get comfortable for the rock-tastic ride to the infinite.
We all shuffle in to the sanctuary in silence. The sitar is already blazing, along with the drums, the harmonium and the other chanters. The opening chant is in Sanskrit and projected clearly with translations. I go with it, and I sway with the rhythm even though I look and feel like a platinum club member, frequent flyer on the Magic Bus.
There is a brief announcement followed by a reading. This is the part where I tune out. I don’t much care for readings, particularly when delivered in breathy awareness, with eager anticipation of the spiritual punch line. Laughing within – one hand clapping like a mutha.
At some point in the parade of symbols, a lady, usually the white kind, wearing a sari, comes from the back with a plate full of candles to light another set of candles. It is not mandatory, but it seems to me that you must follow her with your gaze when she comes around, otherwise something terrible could happen to you. I do it because I’m not here to fuck with the program or to innovate, just saying yes to everything.
Then the lights dim and we begin the high-production value, hour-long chanting session followed by 30 minutes of meditation. The chant usually translates into Oh Guru, light my candle, or I want to know you – your basic stuff brought back to the 4/4 time world by George Harrison.
It’s the sitar and all the other instrumentation that really gets me. They start slowly and almost imperceptibly build up to this maddening hindu jazz Temple of Doom crescendo that makes me feel like a rhesus monkey hopped up on goof balls. It takes all my will power not to jitterbug. Many many times, tears have streamed down my face from the sheer elation generated within the room and I’m surprised more people are not moshing/levitating, but just lightly swaying like tranquilized palms in a breeze. I can’t help but be reminded of the time I saw Fugazi perform at the Watsonville Vets Hall. The force of the music was so pure and clear that I bawled standing on a bench next to Tara Jepsen. These Siddha Yoga guys should take it on the road.
They take you to this peak of whateverness, and then they gradually take you down down down to meditation city. I find the come down sad and the meditation boring. It’s thirty minutes of getting to the oneness, and last time, I spent most of it envisioning my next orgy.
I’m relieved when the wake up chime starts jingling and the lights gradually come up. Anyone is welcome to kiss the feet of the big statue. I get to the shoe rack before someone decides to go home in my leather dress shoes. Heather told me that once someone took her shoes. I guess meditation can also cause amnesia.
I don’t feel transformed, I don’t feel any more closer to the universe, and I certainly am not closer to liking the countless photos of the guru ecstatically meditating on a block of ice in the mountains. But I do feel that it’s worth it. One day, I’ll be whacked in the back of the head by Ganesh’s trunk, but for the time being, I’m going to look busy with the others.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
No Reply
May 31, 2009
Maravilla Foundation
5729 East Union Pacific
Commerce, CA 90023
RE: Site Inspection, May 31, 2009
My Apartment
To Whom It May Concern:
I’d like to apologize to the woman and two men who visited my apartment this afternoon to inspect the furnace and foundation. I was uncharacteristically unhelpful and rude to them. Please know that I was entirely unaware of the benevolent nature of their visit and mistook them for the representatives of the Freed Leeds Property Management, the underachievers who manage this building.
I received no prior warning from the managers and in fact was on my way out when the Maravilla Representatives arrived.
These are the reasons I became annoyed:
1. Not one individual from Maravilla made it clear what organization they represented.
2. Not one individual made clear to me the altruistic nature of their visit.
3. I was asked if I wanted a new furnace installed with ZERO background as to why I would need one.
4. Still not having clearly identified themselves, the woman then asked me if I could produce my utility bills and asked me to state my income to see if I qualify for low-income assistance.
5. When I pointed out that they could have called, one gentleman put the onus on me as the one responsible party for gleaning this information from Corinna Martinez the apartment manager.
6. Confused by this, I asked her if she was the new apartment manager, and she handed me her badge to inspect while she glanced at my DWP bill.
I did not fully realize the intent of the visit until I reviewed your website some hours later.
All in all I’d say this interaction was an example of abysmal communication and I’m willing to acknowledge my part. I hope you can understand that my vexation was borne from a feeling of being blindsided by strangers wanting details I was not prepared to share. From now on, I will be more cordial to any and all representatives of your organization.
Your people need to learn how to introduce themselves more formally by initiating each interaction in this way or similar:
“Hello, my name is _______, from the Maravilla Foundation, you may have received notification from your landlord that we were planning on stopping by…”
instead of:
“Helloooo. (knock knock knock) Hellloooo. We are from the building.”
On another note, I’d like to donate money to the foundation if possible. I have a broad giving portfolio and would like to include the Maravilla Foundation on my list. Your website indicates that you do work that I whole-heartedly support and I would love to assist by giving. If cash donations are not an option, please let me know how else I could contribute.
Again, please pass on my sincere apologies to the people who visited today. I’m truly sorry for my part in the misunderstanding.
Please feel free to call me if you have questions or concerns. My cell phone is (323) xxx-xxxx.
All the best,
Yirko
Maravilla Foundation
5729 East Union Pacific
Commerce, CA 90023
RE: Site Inspection, May 31, 2009
My Apartment
To Whom It May Concern:
I’d like to apologize to the woman and two men who visited my apartment this afternoon to inspect the furnace and foundation. I was uncharacteristically unhelpful and rude to them. Please know that I was entirely unaware of the benevolent nature of their visit and mistook them for the representatives of the Freed Leeds Property Management, the underachievers who manage this building.
I received no prior warning from the managers and in fact was on my way out when the Maravilla Representatives arrived.
These are the reasons I became annoyed:
1. Not one individual from Maravilla made it clear what organization they represented.
2. Not one individual made clear to me the altruistic nature of their visit.
3. I was asked if I wanted a new furnace installed with ZERO background as to why I would need one.
4. Still not having clearly identified themselves, the woman then asked me if I could produce my utility bills and asked me to state my income to see if I qualify for low-income assistance.
5. When I pointed out that they could have called, one gentleman put the onus on me as the one responsible party for gleaning this information from Corinna Martinez the apartment manager.
6. Confused by this, I asked her if she was the new apartment manager, and she handed me her badge to inspect while she glanced at my DWP bill.
I did not fully realize the intent of the visit until I reviewed your website some hours later.
All in all I’d say this interaction was an example of abysmal communication and I’m willing to acknowledge my part. I hope you can understand that my vexation was borne from a feeling of being blindsided by strangers wanting details I was not prepared to share. From now on, I will be more cordial to any and all representatives of your organization.
Your people need to learn how to introduce themselves more formally by initiating each interaction in this way or similar:
“Hello, my name is _______, from the Maravilla Foundation, you may have received notification from your landlord that we were planning on stopping by…”
instead of:
“Helloooo. (knock knock knock) Hellloooo. We are from the building.”
On another note, I’d like to donate money to the foundation if possible. I have a broad giving portfolio and would like to include the Maravilla Foundation on my list. Your website indicates that you do work that I whole-heartedly support and I would love to assist by giving. If cash donations are not an option, please let me know how else I could contribute.
Again, please pass on my sincere apologies to the people who visited today. I’m truly sorry for my part in the misunderstanding.
Please feel free to call me if you have questions or concerns. My cell phone is (323) xxx-xxxx.
All the best,
Yirko
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