Category Archives: paromoiosis

Paromoiosis (par-o-moy-o’-sis): Parallelism of sound between the words of adjacent clauses whose lengths are equal or approximate to one another. The combination of isocolon and assonance.

Red lay cold, stiff, and dead. He should’ve listened to what I said. No brains, no helmet on your head. Now his brans are on the road, red and shiny like a condiment: like hot sauce. Your fate is your recalcitrance, your unbending unwillingness to take advice. I’m surprised you got this far—alongside Rte. 22 by “Hot Deals Hot Tubs.” They had to close for 3 hours while they cleaned you up and took away the remains of your stubborn unyielding life. You smoked too much. You drank too much. You ate too much ice cream. You engaged in risky behaviors. You marked targets at the rifle range. You bungee jumped off of every bridge in the New York Metropolitan Area. You raced Go-Karts. You ate Sushi. And there you go, riding away in the meat wagon to the morgue.

As your so-called best friend, I would be expected to give some kind of eulogy at your funeral. God, what will I say?

“Red was a risk-taker. But, he was also a gentle and kind human being. When he came to visit, he would pull Grandma out of her chair and make he march around the living room to get some ‘badly needed’ exercise. He would sit in Grandma’s chair counting cadence: ‘I don’t know but I’ve been told, marching grandma’s never grow old.’ He was kind. He cared. But his risk-taking was exiting. We could live out our own death-wishes by being around Red and watching him walk the tightrope he strung between life and death. Too bad he fell off and landed on Rte. 22. It is a New Jersey highway commensurate with Red’s character. It is like a bungee chord stretched across Central New Jersey. Driving it is like smoking five packs of Luckies per day, or running with scissors aimed at your throat. That’s why Red liked to ride his bike on it and that’s why we’re petitioning the New Jersey State Legislature to name a stretch of Rte. 22 ‘Red’s Way’ to celebrate what he stood for. Jon Bon Jovi has signed our petition. He’s also working on a song titled ‘Smear on 22.’

Red will never be forgotten. He will be remembered instead.”

There wasn’t a dry eye in the parking lot. The eulogy came through loud and clear over the PA system at the Stewart’s Drive-in where we held the funeral in Seaside Heights. Seaside heights is where Red took his first risk as a kid. He rode the “Wild Mouse” when he was 3.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Paromoiosis (par-o-moy-o’-sis): Parallelism of sound between the words of adjacent clauses whose lengths are equal or approximate to one another. The combination of isocolon and assonance.

It was torn and rusted and ran fine. Ir roared to life most of the time. When I got behind the wheel, I settled into a universe of magic and glee, of jubilance, hilarity and soul quenching adventure along the outside edges of reality—where there are no white lines and the GPS’s screen becomes a seething swirl of color, pointing nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

I drive a 1951 Hudson Hornet. I spent $45,000 restoring it from the pile of rusted junk—from its torn and rusted state with a motor that roared. When I sat in the torn and dirty front seat, I felt happy—the sky brightened—it was like magic. Like I said, it started right up. I would’ve driven it home but the tires were flat. But how did I find it?

I saw it on my way to work. It was sitting in the parking lot next to a gas station. I pulled in to have a look. The Attendant/salesman walked up to me. He said, “This baby’s worth its weight in gold. I can feel. It just showed up on the lot one morning and this rare machine has been here ever since. I’d love to sell her.” “How much,” I asked. He said $1,000. I bought it without a second thought. For starters, I had him replace the tires so I could drive it to the body shop, where I would eventually spend my life savings. It was called “Any Bodies” and was run/owned by Bosnian twin brothers. When I pulled in to their parking lot, they came running out and started caressing my car and said things like “You’re so sweet,” “I would marry you,” “Oh my God.,” and “Let me sit on your fender.”

It was really loony, but the brothers assured me they were sane. They found they did a better job if they took the time to bond with a car when they first met it. Their assurances calmed me down, but I still thought they were crazy. I told them to restore the Hudson, gave a deposit, and told them to call me when they were through.

It took a year of waiting, checking in, and spending money. The phone call from Every Bodies finally came. I took an Uber to pick up the car. There was the Hudson, sitting on the side of the lot. What I saw was breath taking. I almost cried. The car was beautiful—better than new! I paid the balance and got behind wheel, started the car, and drove off. It was magic. I spent almost all of my time driving around my little town. One day, I noticed a button on the dash that I had noticed before. Like the idiot I am, I pressed it and I was transported to a neighborhood street in a small town. I didn’t know what to do. I saw a convenience store named Grant’s and pulled in to find out where I was. I was shaking all over, thinking I was having a psychotic episode or a heart attack. I started to ask the man behind the counter where I was, but when he turned around it was Abraham Lincoln! I totally freaked out and ran out the door. My heart was beating so hard I almost fainted. I got in the Hornet and pulled out of the parking lot. As I did so, I saw J. Edgar Hoover cleaning up a gasoline spill by one of the pumps. As I pulled out of the lot, I realized if I pressed the button again, I would probably return home. I pushed it and I was transported back to my driveway. I ran inside and called my friend Ed and told him everything. He was skeptical, and told me he’d come over and have a look.

When he got to my house we immediately looked inside the car. The button had disappeared. Ed immediately concluded that I was full of shit and left. I thought maybe I could get some answers from the guys I bought the car from. I drove to the gas station and it was gone. There was a wooded park where it used to be.

So, I’ve gone on with my life carrying the burden of a story nobody believes. I keep waiting for the button to pop out of the dashboard again. When it does, I’ll be ready.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.