These blogs below were written from the Summer of 2005 to the present. New Blogs will be from now on brand new. I did this mostly to Archive and because I like to write stuff with words for to people to read and stuff. You know what you use to scoop up chemicals in a lab?
A Scooplula!
Monday, July 16, 2007
Snake man
So I went to the DPS office today to get my drivers licence renewed. So I'm sitting there playing with my phone and so on, then an old Mexican man sits next to me. He wore a guayabera, greay slacks, and shoes like nurses wear. He begins to chat up the lady sitting next to him, who was a middle aged Hispanic lady. So he's talking to her trying to pick her up and she asks him what he does for a living. He replies that he is a curandero, a Mexican witch doctor. She tells him that she is a nurse. He then begins to tell her, "You know what makes the best medicine? RATTLESNAKES." He then begins to explain to her how he shops up and uses different rattlesnake parts for teas and medicines. Mind you I'm the only other Hispanic in there so I'm the only one understanding their Spanish talk because we were in Clear Lake. So then he tells her that not only are rattlesnakes good for medicine but it is also good for cleansing the spirit. He then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a rattlesnakes rattle that he shakes in the woman's face. Now she's getting uncomfortable. He tells her that he used it to expel an evil spirit in a girl somewhere. He explains to the nurse that he eats one rattlesnake heart a week to keep him virile, as if to say "hey baby, don't worry I take viagra." 'sept he's EATING RATTLESNAKE HEARTS! Then he takes out the severed dried head of a rattlesnake with fangs bared and shoves it in her face. Thankfully they called the woman's number, but his was behind her. Then he complained about his high blood pressure.
The moral: If you are going to pick up chicks at the DPS...LEAVE YOUR SEVERED SNAKE BITS AT HOME!
The Rastaman's Dick
I've been many places in my travels: Europe, the Caribbean, Latin America, even to the Middle East. Let me tell you what all these places have in common...
They all sell pot pipes with Rasta dudes with huge schlongs that you smoke dope out of their dicks.
Not being a pot smoker myself I don't go out of my way to find proper pot smoking accoutrement, but it's hard to escape. Every market, shopping area, mall, or fair sells them. Why even at revered sites like the ruins of Pompeii, the Roman aqueduct in Istanbul, or in a thatched hut in the Dominican Republic you can find the familiar rastaman with cock pot pipe.
I wonder what Rasta related merchandise is even doing in a place like Greece, Malta, or Costa Rica. Surely there are no Rastas there. I know that these are sold to the same dumb American Tourists that also but the "One Tequila, Two Tequila, three tequila FLOOR!" T-shirt with the name of the place or who make a b-line for the local Hard Rock or Hooters. But come on guys! Try varying up your pot pipes. Make it a local thing. Perhaps a Mt. Vesuvius bong or a Lake Titicaca owl pipe would be better.
Maybe I'm wrong though, maybe the rastaman pot pipe with the giant schlong is the thing that unites us all. Maybe it is simply an expression of our shared humanity to want to smoke dope out of a dreadlock wearing blackman's cock...You be the judge.
Travolta and Me
There is a thing in the universe that some call Kismet or destiny. I tend to think of them as links in the chain of life. For life is not linear like a McDonald's french fry but rather like the waffle fries at Chic-Fil-A, one thing linking to another that leads off in new directions. Such it is between John Travolta and I.
I grew up in Pasadena TX. Pasadena TX's ONLY claim to fame besides smelling like the sulphur of hell is that the 1981 John Travolta epic Urban Cowboy was shot there. This classic piece of cinema is about young Travolta moving from a farm in East Texas to the big city of Pasadena to accept a job as an oil refinery worker. By day he works on the pipelines and climbs the rigs and by night he rides the electric bull and drinks much Lone Star Beer at Gilley's. This film defines Pasadena so perfectly that the image of Travolta beating Debra Winger should be on the Seal of the City of Pasadena.
Now I live in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Bay Ridge's main claim to international fame is that this is where the 1976 Travolta classic Saturday Night Fever takes place. In this film he plays a young gavone whose life has absolutely no meaning or direction except for going to the nightclubs and dancing disco. His friends also have no purpose to their lives and in the end...they still don't.
So where does that leave me? Is the rest of my life going to be dictated by movies by John Travolta? When I have kids is their internal monologue going to be voiced by Bruce Willis like in Look Who's talking? Will I one day have to stave off evil aliens from taking over the world and enslaving us all in some cosmic fucked-up badly acted Hubbardian future like in Battlefied Earth? I fucking hope not.
I'm just glad my life is fuller than either Tony Manero's or Bud's life. So now I'm going to go home and watch Full House with my cat.
The Enemy of my Enemy is my friend?
There are some moments in life that define who we are, how we live our lives, and how we view others. Think of 9-11, the moon landing, or yesterdays real life like a sports movie Astros game. I had one today. There are lots of movies out there (including The Angstbunny, Melgar, and Timmy now available on DVD http://www.yguyfilms.com). But none are as great, none as technically and artistically perfect...none as capable of changing our lives forever than the film Alien Vs. Predator.
We have HBO here in New York as a result of a special plan for our Internet and digital phone. So when Alien Vs. Predator came on I thought, "I was going to smash my testicles with a hammer today...but instead I'll watch Alien Vs. Predator". And I'm glad I did.
Alien Vs Predator is a love story, wrapped in a buddy picture, wrapped in a cautionary tale about the dangers of smoking.
Once upon a time there is this black girl that likes to go climbing on ice and glaciers and shit. So this billionaire's satellites sees a hidden underground pyramid in Antarctica. This is near those Marching Penguins. There was some in the movie. Who is those penguins agents?
So, the billionaire is dying from lung cancer (smoking message) and he wants to uncover the pyramid. So he assembles a crack team including a hot Italian archaeologist, the Scottish guy that played Spud in Trainspotting and a chick that looks like Geoffrey Muller. So then the billionaire says, "hey, Black girl that likes to climb on ice and glaciers and shit. lead my team". So she does. She is gruff and no nonsense because if you fuck around with ice...that shit WILL KILL YOU!
So when they get there someone has already dug a tunnel to the bottom of the pyramid. who would do such a thing? Why the Predators! Yes, those rasta-squids are back, and ready for fun. What you soon find out is that the pyramid is from the founding civilization on Earth. They know this because the hieroglyphs are in ancient Egyptian, Cambodian, and Aztec. Never mind that these civilizations arose at three different times over a period of 6000 years...but whatever. It seems that these ancient cambodegyptoaztecs used to worship the Predators. The predators like to hunt things, and what better to hunt than the aliens from Alien. So they built this pyramid as a hunting preserve for killing aliens. So the chest bursting, face hugging, acid bleeding fun begins. The Pyramid activates and makes friggin aliens by unfreezing a queen or whatever. Then they kill alot of people.
The black girl who likes to climb ice and glaciers and shit then team up with the Predator to kill lots of aliens, which they do. This is the buddy picture part. At the end the kill the queen and the predator gives his life to save the girl and she receives his hunting stick by his alien tribe thing. Then at the end the dead predator is on the ship and "DUM DUM DUM!" an alien bursts from his chest! Oh NO!
I tell you no movie more captured the Zeitgeist of our times more than Alien Vs. Predator. It taught me to love again...and that there is still hope. If a rasta-squid predator and a black girl that climbs ice and glaciers and stuff can get together, set aside their differences and get together to stop a gang of aliens...why can't we all learn from this. The Predator could teach us all something.
We have HBO here in New York as a result of a special plan for our Internet and digital phone. So when Alien Vs. Predator came on I thought, "I was going to smash my testicles with a hammer today...but instead I'll watch Alien Vs. Predator". And I'm glad I did.
Alien Vs Predator is a love story, wrapped in a buddy picture, wrapped in a cautionary tale about the dangers of smoking.
Once upon a time there is this black girl that likes to go climbing on ice and glaciers and shit. So this billionaire's satellites sees a hidden underground pyramid in Antarctica. This is near those Marching Penguins. There was some in the movie. Who is those penguins agents?
So, the billionaire is dying from lung cancer (smoking message) and he wants to uncover the pyramid. So he assembles a crack team including a hot Italian archaeologist, the Scottish guy that played Spud in Trainspotting and a chick that looks like Geoffrey Muller. So then the billionaire says, "hey, Black girl that likes to climb on ice and glaciers and shit. lead my team". So she does. She is gruff and no nonsense because if you fuck around with ice...that shit WILL KILL YOU!
So when they get there someone has already dug a tunnel to the bottom of the pyramid. who would do such a thing? Why the Predators! Yes, those rasta-squids are back, and ready for fun. What you soon find out is that the pyramid is from the founding civilization on Earth. They know this because the hieroglyphs are in ancient Egyptian, Cambodian, and Aztec. Never mind that these civilizations arose at three different times over a period of 6000 years...but whatever. It seems that these ancient cambodegyptoaztecs used to worship the Predators. The predators like to hunt things, and what better to hunt than the aliens from Alien. So they built this pyramid as a hunting preserve for killing aliens. So the chest bursting, face hugging, acid bleeding fun begins. The Pyramid activates and makes friggin aliens by unfreezing a queen or whatever. Then they kill alot of people.
The black girl who likes to climb ice and glaciers and shit then team up with the Predator to kill lots of aliens, which they do. This is the buddy picture part. At the end the kill the queen and the predator gives his life to save the girl and she receives his hunting stick by his alien tribe thing. Then at the end the dead predator is on the ship and "DUM DUM DUM!" an alien bursts from his chest! Oh NO!
I tell you no movie more captured the Zeitgeist of our times more than Alien Vs. Predator. It taught me to love again...and that there is still hope. If a rasta-squid predator and a black girl that climbs ice and glaciers and stuff can get together, set aside their differences and get together to stop a gang of aliens...why can't we all learn from this. The Predator could teach us all something.
Waffle Fry Theory
I have this theory. I can't back it up necessarily or prove it or anything. It's just something I've come up with. It's called the Waffle Fry theory of the Universe.
Most people, at least in the west, think of time as being linear like a Mcdonald's french fry. There is the past, the present, and the future and one naturally follows the other. This assumes that there is a definite beginning and a definite end and it is progressing to that end. Each cause leads to an effect in a neverending chain of reality that can easily be traced back.
In the East, they see things as being more like an onion ring. A circle. The past present and future are cyclical. What was will be again and the future is already written. That's why they believe in reincarnation. What was here is still here and will be here again.
My theory is that time and our reality is like a waffle fry, like from Chic-fil-A. See every moment of every day for all time not only can lead off in a different tangent but does. All possible realities exist simultaneously. I choose to go to the bathroom before I left my field trip today and this avoided my being stuck in a subway station, I would have been at had i not stopped, when the subway station was shut down for a possible terrorist incident today. But I WAS stuck there, in the string of time where I chose not to go to the bathroom. Both that reality and the one I experienced exist whatever I choose. The reality we are aware of is only the rung of the waffle fry we are on at any given moment. However every tangent is still there, existing on some level. jutting out in a never ending web pattern that contains all possible realities and all possible choices laying out for eternity. It is only the choices we make and circumstances that determine where we are. All those other versions of ourselves exist though we are unaware of them. This interconnected web of reality makes up the fabric of our lives.
We have free will, and it is our great gift. God will not force our hands. We choose every moment, and we just then turn down that rung. We could just have easily gone another way. Every moment that followed would grow out of this new turn. It's like a choose your own adventure book that never ends.
Most people, at least in the west, think of time as being linear like a Mcdonald's french fry. There is the past, the present, and the future and one naturally follows the other. This assumes that there is a definite beginning and a definite end and it is progressing to that end. Each cause leads to an effect in a neverending chain of reality that can easily be traced back.
In the East, they see things as being more like an onion ring. A circle. The past present and future are cyclical. What was will be again and the future is already written. That's why they believe in reincarnation. What was here is still here and will be here again.
My theory is that time and our reality is like a waffle fry, like from Chic-fil-A. See every moment of every day for all time not only can lead off in a different tangent but does. All possible realities exist simultaneously. I choose to go to the bathroom before I left my field trip today and this avoided my being stuck in a subway station, I would have been at had i not stopped, when the subway station was shut down for a possible terrorist incident today. But I WAS stuck there, in the string of time where I chose not to go to the bathroom. Both that reality and the one I experienced exist whatever I choose. The reality we are aware of is only the rung of the waffle fry we are on at any given moment. However every tangent is still there, existing on some level. jutting out in a never ending web pattern that contains all possible realities and all possible choices laying out for eternity. It is only the choices we make and circumstances that determine where we are. All those other versions of ourselves exist though we are unaware of them. This interconnected web of reality makes up the fabric of our lives.
We have free will, and it is our great gift. God will not force our hands. We choose every moment, and we just then turn down that rung. We could just have easily gone another way. Every moment that followed would grow out of this new turn. It's like a choose your own adventure book that never ends.
Felddog
If I'm an expert on anything, besides eating pizza, it's acting. I'm not saying I'm the greatest actor in the world. I am, in fact, the...347Th greatest actor in the world right between Denis Hopper and Alfalfa from Our Gang. But i have an eye for that sort of thing, and in my opinion there is one actor that stands hand over heads over everyone else:
Corey Feldman.
The Feld-dog, you say? Yes I do. In the battle of the Coreys, he makes the Corey Haim (the Haim-bone) look like a talentless assfaced spaz. Feldman's acting technique is so unique...he goes deeper into his emotional memory than any actor I know.
For those of you who have never studied the Stanislavsky method of acting, emotional memory is using a deep psychological explorations of the senses and emotions you feel in real life to then draw upon those on the stage or for the screen.
If Feldman was perhaps needing to feel sad for a scene, let's say, He could use his sense memory about running out of coke while snorting it off a whore's ass with Scott Baio in 1989. That made him sad. After all there are few things sadder than a whore's ass devoid of any cocaine. It is like a smooth peach wasteland of broken dreams. He might think of that and BAM! ready to turn on the water works.
What is the best of Feld? Is it his masterful turn as Mouth in the Goonies? Or perhaps Stand by Me? Was it Licence to drive? NO. Haim only holds him back. Same with Dream a little dream I and II. No, I would have to say the greatest moment for Corey Feldman would have to be Bikini Bandits go to Hell. In this film, to call it a movie is to sully it, is about a group of Bikini clad bank robbers who die after they fall off a cliff. When they go to hell they try to escape and try to get to heaven. That is where Feldman takes his turn as the Angel Gabriel. It is well trod territory for fiction (see Dante's the Inferno or Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey) but this time it makes me happier than a fat man standing open mouthed under a maple syrup truck's exit valve. If there is a God, he would most certainly put the Feld-dog in charge of his choirs of seraphim. Amazing.
You can see The Feld off Broadway in Fatal Attraction the Greek tragedy. He plays Michael Douglas. I for one hope they give out Kleenex...I may cry.
Corey Feldman.
The Feld-dog, you say? Yes I do. In the battle of the Coreys, he makes the Corey Haim (the Haim-bone) look like a talentless assfaced spaz. Feldman's acting technique is so unique...he goes deeper into his emotional memory than any actor I know.
For those of you who have never studied the Stanislavsky method of acting, emotional memory is using a deep psychological explorations of the senses and emotions you feel in real life to then draw upon those on the stage or for the screen.
If Feldman was perhaps needing to feel sad for a scene, let's say, He could use his sense memory about running out of coke while snorting it off a whore's ass with Scott Baio in 1989. That made him sad. After all there are few things sadder than a whore's ass devoid of any cocaine. It is like a smooth peach wasteland of broken dreams. He might think of that and BAM! ready to turn on the water works.
What is the best of Feld? Is it his masterful turn as Mouth in the Goonies? Or perhaps Stand by Me? Was it Licence to drive? NO. Haim only holds him back. Same with Dream a little dream I and II. No, I would have to say the greatest moment for Corey Feldman would have to be Bikini Bandits go to Hell. In this film, to call it a movie is to sully it, is about a group of Bikini clad bank robbers who die after they fall off a cliff. When they go to hell they try to escape and try to get to heaven. That is where Feldman takes his turn as the Angel Gabriel. It is well trod territory for fiction (see Dante's the Inferno or Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey) but this time it makes me happier than a fat man standing open mouthed under a maple syrup truck's exit valve. If there is a God, he would most certainly put the Feld-dog in charge of his choirs of seraphim. Amazing.
You can see The Feld off Broadway in Fatal Attraction the Greek tragedy. He plays Michael Douglas. I for one hope they give out Kleenex...I may cry.
The Chinese Connection
The other day Marybec was talking to Arlina on the phone and MB asked her if she wanted anything from New York. Arlina had only one request, "Get me some knockoff purses".
See in a magical land called Chinatown you can buy just about anything pretty cheap. Everything from fishheads, chintzy Chinese crap, and weapons are all being hocked by folks straight from the boat (no Mogwais though, I checked). They learn the words important to their trade,"DVD!DVD!" or "Coach FENDI Rouis Viton" and they are good to go.
But the one most important item for sale in Chinatown is Knockoff designer purses. It is a cottage industry that the Chinese have a complete control over. These folks left their jobs working in a sweat shop in Beijing to employ young Hispanic women in sweat shops in Queens producing knock off Louis Vuiton and Prada bags.
Now most places in Chinatown have what MB described as, "Obvious fakes" in plain view. They look kind of like the real thing but on close examination the are clear forgeries. an Lp instead of an LV etc. This is totally legal as they are not technically violating copyright laws. These are bought up by tourists and nearsighted women. But there are better ones...
So we were walking along and a man gave the usual "Fendi, Prada, Rouis Vuiton" schpeel to Marybec and she says, let me see. So he lead her to the back of their store that sold I Heart NY t-shirts and Chinese tourist crap to the back. You moved through a small opening concealed by silk Chinese brocade dresses and you enter a back room filled with women and purses, REALLY believable purses. The woman who ran it asked me to wait outside. She was jumpy and agitated. She kept looking out through the "door" of dresses awaiting to close it at any moment. Marybec bought a bag for Arlina and we continued on.
A little further on a second woman approached Marybec and offered purses. MB thought that she would just be taken into another hidden room at the back of the store. Oh no.
The girl told us to follow her. This girl looked even more nervous, like a wounded high strung animal. She was communicating with someone in Chinese with her Nextel walky-talky. Our journey to wherever we were going was stopped when she said, "policeman" and pointed to a cop car parked in front of us. We waited for a few minutes and then she beckoned us to follow her. She led us through several streets and corners and finally into the inevitable dark alleyway. I figured she would take us to a van where they were selling them right out of there. On our way I saw just how many people were doing the same thing we were doing. We watched ladies coming out of backrooms and Chinese people on Nextel phones. This must be a multi-million dollar industry for these people. She opened a grated door on the back of shady looking building .. 5 and beckoned us inside.
Now a smart person would have left, but we were frankly curious about what was in that room. I figured a smoky warehouse full of Chinese gangsters smoking opium. No.
When we stepped through the doors and down some steps and we were greeted by a sight I was honestly not expecting.
A room, about the size of a basketball court, full of ping pong tables with dozens of people furiously playing ping pong. WHAT?!!
So the nervous girl led us to side room as we avoided flying ping pong balls. In this room were many different kinds of purses. Marybec picked the purse she wanted and asked the girl for the price. The girl looked really nervous. She wanted to get us out of there as quickly as possible. She would not even haggle with Marybec. So she paid the price and we took the bag and stepped out of this world of purses and ping pong.
Later, Marybec was examining the purses and came to a startling conclusion. These were not knockoffs...these were the real deal. They had all the packaging, tags, paperwork, numbered editions, linings, and labels of the real thing. We had not purchased knockoff purses...we had purchased stolen merchandise. The women's nervousness suddenly made perfect sense. They weren't maybe violating copyright laws, they were fencing stolen goods. "Fallen off the back of a truck" indeed.
So, the moral is Chinatown is a wacky land full of stolen shit, and the black market is not hard to find.
So Arlina, you are not getting knockoffs my dear. You are getting real designer purses.
See in a magical land called Chinatown you can buy just about anything pretty cheap. Everything from fishheads, chintzy Chinese crap, and weapons are all being hocked by folks straight from the boat (no Mogwais though, I checked). They learn the words important to their trade,"DVD!DVD!" or "Coach FENDI Rouis Viton" and they are good to go.
But the one most important item for sale in Chinatown is Knockoff designer purses. It is a cottage industry that the Chinese have a complete control over. These folks left their jobs working in a sweat shop in Beijing to employ young Hispanic women in sweat shops in Queens producing knock off Louis Vuiton and Prada bags.
Now most places in Chinatown have what MB described as, "Obvious fakes" in plain view. They look kind of like the real thing but on close examination the are clear forgeries. an Lp instead of an LV etc. This is totally legal as they are not technically violating copyright laws. These are bought up by tourists and nearsighted women. But there are better ones...
So we were walking along and a man gave the usual "Fendi, Prada, Rouis Vuiton" schpeel to Marybec and she says, let me see. So he lead her to the back of their store that sold I Heart NY t-shirts and Chinese tourist crap to the back. You moved through a small opening concealed by silk Chinese brocade dresses and you enter a back room filled with women and purses, REALLY believable purses. The woman who ran it asked me to wait outside. She was jumpy and agitated. She kept looking out through the "door" of dresses awaiting to close it at any moment. Marybec bought a bag for Arlina and we continued on.
A little further on a second woman approached Marybec and offered purses. MB thought that she would just be taken into another hidden room at the back of the store. Oh no.
The girl told us to follow her. This girl looked even more nervous, like a wounded high strung animal. She was communicating with someone in Chinese with her Nextel walky-talky. Our journey to wherever we were going was stopped when she said, "policeman" and pointed to a cop car parked in front of us. We waited for a few minutes and then she beckoned us to follow her. She led us through several streets and corners and finally into the inevitable dark alleyway. I figured she would take us to a van where they were selling them right out of there. On our way I saw just how many people were doing the same thing we were doing. We watched ladies coming out of backrooms and Chinese people on Nextel phones. This must be a multi-million dollar industry for these people. She opened a grated door on the back of shady looking building .. 5 and beckoned us inside.
Now a smart person would have left, but we were frankly curious about what was in that room. I figured a smoky warehouse full of Chinese gangsters smoking opium. No.
When we stepped through the doors and down some steps and we were greeted by a sight I was honestly not expecting.
A room, about the size of a basketball court, full of ping pong tables with dozens of people furiously playing ping pong. WHAT?!!
So the nervous girl led us to side room as we avoided flying ping pong balls. In this room were many different kinds of purses. Marybec picked the purse she wanted and asked the girl for the price. The girl looked really nervous. She wanted to get us out of there as quickly as possible. She would not even haggle with Marybec. So she paid the price and we took the bag and stepped out of this world of purses and ping pong.
Later, Marybec was examining the purses and came to a startling conclusion. These were not knockoffs...these were the real deal. They had all the packaging, tags, paperwork, numbered editions, linings, and labels of the real thing. We had not purchased knockoff purses...we had purchased stolen merchandise. The women's nervousness suddenly made perfect sense. They weren't maybe violating copyright laws, they were fencing stolen goods. "Fallen off the back of a truck" indeed.
So, the moral is Chinatown is a wacky land full of stolen shit, and the black market is not hard to find.
So Arlina, you are not getting knockoffs my dear. You are getting real designer purses.
Don't Puchkin me, 'cause I'm close to the edge
I was reading this book about duels.
I read this story about the Russian Poet Alexander Pushkin. He was a notorious womanizer and fought many a duel, in fact he was killed in one by the Spanish Ambassador's aide de camp because the Spanish guy was pluggin Pushkins wife.
Anywho, there was this other duel he fought with this guy who'se wife he, Pushkin, was plugging. The guy challenged him and Puchkin showed up with only a bag of cherries. Puchkin ate the cherries and spit them at the guy while the guy, pissed off kept shooting at him. After he had shot at Puchkin 5 times, Pushkin asked him, "are you satisfied?". the guy, humiliated and exhausted said yes. Puchkin spat one last cherrie pit and walked away into the Russian night.
That's balls. Big ones.
I'm not saying that people should fight duels today, though i know there are some folks I would want to stand toe to toe with. But now a days people can say and do whatever they want and there is little or no consequences. I think maybe you'd think twice before calling someone out. On the other hand Tom Cruise would have challenged Joey and I to a duel because I've called him a talentless midget with an ass face and Joey has called him Child-Eating crazy. Then again I could just slap him, put him in a paper bag and toss him off the Varrazano bridge into Sheephead bay.
I read this story about the Russian Poet Alexander Pushkin. He was a notorious womanizer and fought many a duel, in fact he was killed in one by the Spanish Ambassador's aide de camp because the Spanish guy was pluggin Pushkins wife.
Anywho, there was this other duel he fought with this guy who'se wife he, Pushkin, was plugging. The guy challenged him and Puchkin showed up with only a bag of cherries. Puchkin ate the cherries and spit them at the guy while the guy, pissed off kept shooting at him. After he had shot at Puchkin 5 times, Pushkin asked him, "are you satisfied?". the guy, humiliated and exhausted said yes. Puchkin spat one last cherrie pit and walked away into the Russian night.
That's balls. Big ones.
I'm not saying that people should fight duels today, though i know there are some folks I would want to stand toe to toe with. But now a days people can say and do whatever they want and there is little or no consequences. I think maybe you'd think twice before calling someone out. On the other hand Tom Cruise would have challenged Joey and I to a duel because I've called him a talentless midget with an ass face and Joey has called him Child-Eating crazy. Then again I could just slap him, put him in a paper bag and toss him off the Varrazano bridge into Sheephead bay.
Desi
When I was growing up there were only two Hispanics I ever saw on TV, Desi Arnaz and Speedy Gonzalez. Though Speedy was the fastest mouse in all of Mexico and showed that stupid gato what's what, Desi was the one that we all looked up too.
Think about the television landscape of the 1950's. White, suburban, boring ass suburbanites who did boring shit and were lame. Then came Desi and his crazy wife Lucy. The show was funny, no doubt. But think about the climate of the culture at the time. Not exactly open minded about Hispanics and "White folks" being married. And here was this show where this Cuban band leader and his wife lived their zany lives in New York city.
While the portrayal of Desi was a broad character it was by no means denigrating. though he did sometimes look like a buffoon, Lucy and Ethel looked much more foolish and no one would say the show was anti-Kracy Redhead. No, he was cool and elegant. Desi always looked sharp in his suits, tuxes, and smoking jackets. Hair in the brilliant quaff that would be rivalled only by Tony Curtis or Elvis. The way he walked, talked, and even smoked was pure cool. He was like a Cuban James Dean, except you could understand what he said and Desi could drive better.
He was also a gifted straightman. Lucy was brilliant, but a zany character is only as brilliant as their straightman. Vivian Vance and Desi were both amazing straightmen, working as a sounding board for Lucy. But Desi was funny on his own. A raising of his eyebrows and cursing in Spanish whenever Lucy would crash the show. Good stuff.
Not to mention his musical talent. His band was awesome. Have you ever listened to Babalu, Cuban Pete, or the Lady in Red outside the context of the show. His band was one of the great groups of the Cuban big band era. The mix of Latin rhythms and Desi's sexy voice was perfection. Download his songs and listen, or if not there are a few of his CD's on Amazon.
Desi was also a pioneer in his industry. He and Lucy founded Desilu studios as the first independent television production company working outside the studio system. He didn't want to be controlled by the networks, so he took his destiny in his own hands. He would produce the shows and sell them to the networks and local affiliates thereby inventing syndication. Besides I love Lucy, they also produced Mission: Impossible, Star Trek, the Untouchables, Dragnet and many more.
I know he had his problems. I know he cheated on Lucy. alot. I know he had a drinking problem too and could be a perfectionist. I'm not saying the guy is a saint.
What I do think is that Desi busted open the door for those that would come after. He isn't just an icon for Cubans, but for Latinos everywhere. He is one of our most enduring icons like Cantinflas, Zorro, or Celia Cruz. Desi was not a bandito, or an illiterate peasant like all other Hispanics were shown to be back then, just waiting around for John Wayne or Gary Cooper to shoot them in the face. He was an ultra-cool bandleader who only wanted a hot meal when he came home and for his wife not to have filled the living room up with chickens or whatever.
Also, Marybec says he is Muy Caliente. Aye! Aye!
Think about the television landscape of the 1950's. White, suburban, boring ass suburbanites who did boring shit and were lame. Then came Desi and his crazy wife Lucy. The show was funny, no doubt. But think about the climate of the culture at the time. Not exactly open minded about Hispanics and "White folks" being married. And here was this show where this Cuban band leader and his wife lived their zany lives in New York city.
While the portrayal of Desi was a broad character it was by no means denigrating. though he did sometimes look like a buffoon, Lucy and Ethel looked much more foolish and no one would say the show was anti-Kracy Redhead. No, he was cool and elegant. Desi always looked sharp in his suits, tuxes, and smoking jackets. Hair in the brilliant quaff that would be rivalled only by Tony Curtis or Elvis. The way he walked, talked, and even smoked was pure cool. He was like a Cuban James Dean, except you could understand what he said and Desi could drive better.
He was also a gifted straightman. Lucy was brilliant, but a zany character is only as brilliant as their straightman. Vivian Vance and Desi were both amazing straightmen, working as a sounding board for Lucy. But Desi was funny on his own. A raising of his eyebrows and cursing in Spanish whenever Lucy would crash the show. Good stuff.
Not to mention his musical talent. His band was awesome. Have you ever listened to Babalu, Cuban Pete, or the Lady in Red outside the context of the show. His band was one of the great groups of the Cuban big band era. The mix of Latin rhythms and Desi's sexy voice was perfection. Download his songs and listen, or if not there are a few of his CD's on Amazon.
Desi was also a pioneer in his industry. He and Lucy founded Desilu studios as the first independent television production company working outside the studio system. He didn't want to be controlled by the networks, so he took his destiny in his own hands. He would produce the shows and sell them to the networks and local affiliates thereby inventing syndication. Besides I love Lucy, they also produced Mission: Impossible, Star Trek, the Untouchables, Dragnet and many more.
I know he had his problems. I know he cheated on Lucy. alot. I know he had a drinking problem too and could be a perfectionist. I'm not saying the guy is a saint.
What I do think is that Desi busted open the door for those that would come after. He isn't just an icon for Cubans, but for Latinos everywhere. He is one of our most enduring icons like Cantinflas, Zorro, or Celia Cruz. Desi was not a bandito, or an illiterate peasant like all other Hispanics were shown to be back then, just waiting around for John Wayne or Gary Cooper to shoot them in the face. He was an ultra-cool bandleader who only wanted a hot meal when he came home and for his wife not to have filled the living room up with chickens or whatever.
Also, Marybec says he is Muy Caliente. Aye! Aye!
Alan Alda doesn't like Nathan Lane
Our friend Rebecca Childs is visiting us this week (yeah, friends!) so today we decided to drive out to see the Hamptons on Eastern Long island.
Now we had never been out that far and we were really excited about seeing this playground of the rich and famous. I know that its more of a summer place, but who knows. Maybe there was some December soiree at Diddys or something.
So first stop on our way there was Amityville to see the town where the Amityville horror thing supposedly went down. The address of the house is unlisted but we drove around in the area where the house would be and boy oh boy is it creepy. There is something inherently creepy about New England, which is why most horror movies are set here. This area of Long Island was founded in the 1640's so there is plenty of town for crazy shit to go down. Especially ax murders. The whole Western part of the town was underwater because of a rain storm the night before. This impeded our exploring some of the neighborhood...creepy shit.
So we got to Southampton and it wasn't what I expected. It didn't look like some swanky resort town, or even a beach community. It looked like a small New England town with a courthouse, churches, and small mom and pop shops. There were some chic boutiques and artisan cheese store where I saw with my own eyes a guy spend $500 on a small Sopresetta salami and half a wheel of artisan cheese. FUCK! But these shops were few and far between.
It suddenly struck me what this Hampton thing was all about. The hip celebs and rich fucks that live in New York travel out there to pretend they live a quiet small town life. Of course them being dumb celebs and rich fucks they bring their artisan cheeses,organic tofu, and cocaine with them. It was all kind of sad, this charade these people put on badly.
We stopped at a diner to have lunch. I was eating my gyro when I looked up and saw Alan Alda. The real Alan Alda. But he didn't look like Hawkeye Pierce or Ricky Roma. He looked like a haggard old man, too cold inside to take his jacket off. He was talking quite animatedly to the lady he was with about how "Fucking Nathan Lane" always beats him out of awards the Tony's, the golden globes. He looked upset about this, and "Fucking Nathan Lane".
it made me think, wow without his makeup and costumes he is just another insecure actor bitching about recognition in a town where they pretend to be just regular people with real problems. I know I am constantly being hampered in what I want to do by "Fucking Nathan Lane". The other day "Fucking Nathan Lane" made me late for class by pushing me down in the subway and hoping in the car ahead of me. Just yesterday "fucking nathan Lane" set a bag of dog shit on fire on my door step rang the doorbell and ran away. But don't you worry dear friends, I got his number. When "Fucking Nathan Lane" pours out his Cap'n Crunch cereal tomorrow, he is going to find that his crunch berries have been replaced by my cat Abigail's turds. then you will hear "FUCKING JACK TOMAS"! Echo through the great white way. And Alan Alda and I will laugh.
Now we had never been out that far and we were really excited about seeing this playground of the rich and famous. I know that its more of a summer place, but who knows. Maybe there was some December soiree at Diddys or something.
So first stop on our way there was Amityville to see the town where the Amityville horror thing supposedly went down. The address of the house is unlisted but we drove around in the area where the house would be and boy oh boy is it creepy. There is something inherently creepy about New England, which is why most horror movies are set here. This area of Long Island was founded in the 1640's so there is plenty of town for crazy shit to go down. Especially ax murders. The whole Western part of the town was underwater because of a rain storm the night before. This impeded our exploring some of the neighborhood...creepy shit.
So we got to Southampton and it wasn't what I expected. It didn't look like some swanky resort town, or even a beach community. It looked like a small New England town with a courthouse, churches, and small mom and pop shops. There were some chic boutiques and artisan cheese store where I saw with my own eyes a guy spend $500 on a small Sopresetta salami and half a wheel of artisan cheese. FUCK! But these shops were few and far between.
It suddenly struck me what this Hampton thing was all about. The hip celebs and rich fucks that live in New York travel out there to pretend they live a quiet small town life. Of course them being dumb celebs and rich fucks they bring their artisan cheeses,organic tofu, and cocaine with them. It was all kind of sad, this charade these people put on badly.
We stopped at a diner to have lunch. I was eating my gyro when I looked up and saw Alan Alda. The real Alan Alda. But he didn't look like Hawkeye Pierce or Ricky Roma. He looked like a haggard old man, too cold inside to take his jacket off. He was talking quite animatedly to the lady he was with about how "Fucking Nathan Lane" always beats him out of awards the Tony's, the golden globes. He looked upset about this, and "Fucking Nathan Lane".
it made me think, wow without his makeup and costumes he is just another insecure actor bitching about recognition in a town where they pretend to be just regular people with real problems. I know I am constantly being hampered in what I want to do by "Fucking Nathan Lane". The other day "Fucking Nathan Lane" made me late for class by pushing me down in the subway and hoping in the car ahead of me. Just yesterday "fucking nathan Lane" set a bag of dog shit on fire on my door step rang the doorbell and ran away. But don't you worry dear friends, I got his number. When "Fucking Nathan Lane" pours out his Cap'n Crunch cereal tomorrow, he is going to find that his crunch berries have been replaced by my cat Abigail's turds. then you will hear "FUCKING JACK TOMAS"! Echo through the great white way. And Alan Alda and I will laugh.
Scream Like an Asshole
The other night I went to McDonalds, because MB and I had no food in the house, and there was this 14 year old kid who would hide behind a parked car and would leap out in front of oncoming cars and scream at the top of his lungs "WATCH OUT!!". He thought this was very very funny. He was accompanied by his 8 year old brother seemed to be hoping that his brother would get hit by a car. He also had his older sister there who was too busy making out with her boyfriend to care too much. She would simply say,(Brooklyn accent) "You're fucking stupid!". When I say he yelled at the top of his lungs, I'm not kidding. I could hear his vocal chords tearing and it echoed throughout the street. He would also scream watch out at passing pedestrians. When I got closer he yelled it at me. When I ignored him and didn't react the way he wanted he yelled it again and again. So i got our food and was heading back and he again began to screech "Watch out at!!" at me. so I turned around and yelled back:
"Do you have some kind of disease that makes you scream like an asshole?"
He made a "oh that's so funny" dramatic movement which caused him to slip on the ice and bang his head on the parked car. The brother, sister, and her dumb boyfriend all laughed at him too. So did I. If I could have pee'd in his mouth I would have.
"Do you have some kind of disease that makes you scream like an asshole?"
He made a "oh that's so funny" dramatic movement which caused him to slip on the ice and bang his head on the parked car. The brother, sister, and her dumb boyfriend all laughed at him too. So did I. If I could have pee'd in his mouth I would have.
Cyborguesa con Queso
In my media theory classes we read this stuff that said that we humans, through our technology have become cyborgs. At first I thought, that's nuts...but think about it.
Now it's easy to see how someone like Sam Havens, our old Drama teacher is a cyborg, because he has an artificial hip and a pacemaker. There is an obvious parallel there as he clearly has machine parts. But we can extend it further. Take my mother who wears a hearing aid to help her fully understand the world. Is she not also a cyborg? Yes, i think you can clearly draw a line between her need for using the hearing aid and her ability to function in society.
So clearly we do have cyborgs living among us by the Six Million Dollar man definition of the word. But let's extend the metaphor further. What about the rest of us that don't have literal machine parts of our bodies but still are as dependent on technologies that they are, in a sense, a part of us.
Here in New York City people are as plugged into technology as anybody in the world could be. Everyone, barring the homeless, has a cell phone, ipod/cd player, personal computer, pda's, handheld games, digital cameras etc. On the subway you see everyone with headphones in the ear, doing shit on a pda-computer-cell phone. You have to carry everything on your person because you can't use your car like a portable storage device like you do in Houston or LA. A popular thing here are those tiny bluetooth headsets that go in your ear and have an external mic (these folks even look like cyborgs). The subway carries them where they need to go, replacing their feet as cars do in Houston and elsewhere.
I come home and plug in the computer, get my information on the TV, talk to joey on my cell phone etc.
You say, "yeah Jack, but I COULD live without all this stuff."
True, you could. But is it really feasible? You don't need the iPod, but a cell phone is damn near a necessity. Unless your some kind of hippie that only rides his bike and has a hemp powered lawn mower or whatever, you depend on technology everyday, and we are doing so more and more. Credit cards, purchasing on the Internet (hell, access to the Internet is a necessity!) etc is not a choice anymore. I registered for classes yesterday and I could not register on paper, only online.
I'm not one of those people that thinks robots will replace us or any of that crap. I know that we humans have lots of stuff a machine could never have mind, soul, creativity etc. But in a very real sense we are cyborgs. I've been obsessed with this idea for several weeks now. Marybec has taken to calling me a cyborguesa con queso. Umm...a hamburguesa con queso sounds good. See, a robot can't eat. I can because i'm just a metaphorical cyborg. Suck it Johnny 5.
Now it's easy to see how someone like Sam Havens, our old Drama teacher is a cyborg, because he has an artificial hip and a pacemaker. There is an obvious parallel there as he clearly has machine parts. But we can extend it further. Take my mother who wears a hearing aid to help her fully understand the world. Is she not also a cyborg? Yes, i think you can clearly draw a line between her need for using the hearing aid and her ability to function in society.
So clearly we do have cyborgs living among us by the Six Million Dollar man definition of the word. But let's extend the metaphor further. What about the rest of us that don't have literal machine parts of our bodies but still are as dependent on technologies that they are, in a sense, a part of us.
Here in New York City people are as plugged into technology as anybody in the world could be. Everyone, barring the homeless, has a cell phone, ipod/cd player, personal computer, pda's, handheld games, digital cameras etc. On the subway you see everyone with headphones in the ear, doing shit on a pda-computer-cell phone. You have to carry everything on your person because you can't use your car like a portable storage device like you do in Houston or LA. A popular thing here are those tiny bluetooth headsets that go in your ear and have an external mic (these folks even look like cyborgs). The subway carries them where they need to go, replacing their feet as cars do in Houston and elsewhere.
I come home and plug in the computer, get my information on the TV, talk to joey on my cell phone etc.
You say, "yeah Jack, but I COULD live without all this stuff."
True, you could. But is it really feasible? You don't need the iPod, but a cell phone is damn near a necessity. Unless your some kind of hippie that only rides his bike and has a hemp powered lawn mower or whatever, you depend on technology everyday, and we are doing so more and more. Credit cards, purchasing on the Internet (hell, access to the Internet is a necessity!) etc is not a choice anymore. I registered for classes yesterday and I could not register on paper, only online.
I'm not one of those people that thinks robots will replace us or any of that crap. I know that we humans have lots of stuff a machine could never have mind, soul, creativity etc. But in a very real sense we are cyborgs. I've been obsessed with this idea for several weeks now. Marybec has taken to calling me a cyborguesa con queso. Umm...a hamburguesa con queso sounds good. See, a robot can't eat. I can because i'm just a metaphorical cyborg. Suck it Johnny 5.
Asaulted Nuts
Another sordid tale from the life of Jack Tomas.
Once upon a time in a magical land called Pasadena, a young Jack Tomas convinced a girl to be his girlfriend. Now this is not the godlike comic genius and man about town that is the 28 year old Jack Tomas. Ney. (Yeah, I said Ney, deal with it! )This was a nerdy 15 year old awkward piece of soggy cheesecake that had never so much as kissed a girl and all of a sudden here was a girl who would let him touch her cake and ice cream.
This tale, was long before all that though. This was early on, when our hero was just feeling his way and trying to figure this thing called dating out for the first time. The girl was Christine, who you may know from other Jack Tomas tales such as "I'm being raped by a basset Hound!" and "That bitch ran me over with her car at Homecoming!".
So, it was the first week of summer and Christine came over to go swimming with me in my pool. Now this was DEFINITELY a new one on me. A real girl, not one in a porn, that was right there in a bathing suit. So, we swam all day together. We didn't do anything real sexy, a kiss or hug, whatever. However there was a fire in the hull if you know what I mean.
The guys will understand what I'm talking about. See, when you're 15 you have about as much control over your erections as you'd have over a baboon hopped up on Crystal Meth holding a baseball bat in a room full of bunnies, (Baboons and cute bunnies are natural enemies). Also back then I couldn't really control the old cannon from firing too early into Fort Fruit of the Looms. Today, I can control it like a Jedi master controls a lightsaber. So, needless to say having a half naked girl that close to me caused me to have a massive erection for like 5 hours, and I really couldn't hide it very well in my Hawaiian print swim trunks.
So, we got out of the pool and were sitting watching TV, when all of a sudden I had a strong, horrific, stabbing pain in my testicles. I mean it FUCKING HURT, like I had never had 'Ol Han and Chewie hurt. Now, I knew I was in trouble. A few years before my dog Bruno had tortioned his testicle and they had had to remove it. My mother, a pediatrician if you didn't know, had explained to me that if the teste dies (EEK!) it must be removed or else. So I had a decision to make:
1) Do I tell my mom about my inflamed extremely painful testicles and possibly save the nut
or
2) Do i risk it, save my dignity but lose my nut.
Would would you have done?
"Mooooom!" I cried.
So my mother examines my testicles, with a worried Christine in the next room. She said they were extremely swollen and clearly they hurt me. So she calls my uncle Raul, a urologist (For you St. Thomas people he is my cousin, Alaine Garcia's dad). Raul rushes over from his office and tells me to drop trow. He puts on his rubber gloves and kneads my balls like two hard boiled eggs in a tube sock. My mother is in the room, consulting this examination of my balls. Christine is in the next room, within earshot.
"Have you had an erection today Jackie?" Asked Raul.
"Umm...yeah...for a while." I said.
"Well...you have blue balls Jackie." Said Raul.
"What?" I said.
"See, when you have an erection the semen comes down the urethra to get ready to ejaculate. When that doesn't happen for a while and more sperm comes down it backs up into the seminal vesicles causing pain and swelling" Said Raul quoting from the Urologists guide to dumb teenage ball trouble.
"So...what do I do? It really hurts." I said.
"Well, take two Tylenol and go jerk off." Said Raul making a Jerking off motion.
He then hands the rubber gloves to my mom, walks out the door, gets on his Harley and rides away like a Urological Easy Rider.
So there I am with my mother and Christine knowing I have to go upstairs and High Five Yul Bryner. So I'm trying to be non-chalant, right, attempting to casually make my way upstairs. Then my mother says:
"Well you better go to the bathroom and..." She tugs on the index finger of the rubber glove like one might on a wiener.
I then began my walk of shame passed my mother and my new girlfriend to go upstairs and clean my clogged pipes.
The moral of the story:
Sometimes having a family full of doctors really sucks
and
I'm glad I don't have to deal with dating anymore.
Once upon a time in a magical land called Pasadena, a young Jack Tomas convinced a girl to be his girlfriend. Now this is not the godlike comic genius and man about town that is the 28 year old Jack Tomas. Ney. (Yeah, I said Ney, deal with it! )This was a nerdy 15 year old awkward piece of soggy cheesecake that had never so much as kissed a girl and all of a sudden here was a girl who would let him touch her cake and ice cream.
This tale, was long before all that though. This was early on, when our hero was just feeling his way and trying to figure this thing called dating out for the first time. The girl was Christine, who you may know from other Jack Tomas tales such as "I'm being raped by a basset Hound!" and "That bitch ran me over with her car at Homecoming!".
So, it was the first week of summer and Christine came over to go swimming with me in my pool. Now this was DEFINITELY a new one on me. A real girl, not one in a porn, that was right there in a bathing suit. So, we swam all day together. We didn't do anything real sexy, a kiss or hug, whatever. However there was a fire in the hull if you know what I mean.
The guys will understand what I'm talking about. See, when you're 15 you have about as much control over your erections as you'd have over a baboon hopped up on Crystal Meth holding a baseball bat in a room full of bunnies, (Baboons and cute bunnies are natural enemies). Also back then I couldn't really control the old cannon from firing too early into Fort Fruit of the Looms. Today, I can control it like a Jedi master controls a lightsaber. So, needless to say having a half naked girl that close to me caused me to have a massive erection for like 5 hours, and I really couldn't hide it very well in my Hawaiian print swim trunks.
So, we got out of the pool and were sitting watching TV, when all of a sudden I had a strong, horrific, stabbing pain in my testicles. I mean it FUCKING HURT, like I had never had 'Ol Han and Chewie hurt. Now, I knew I was in trouble. A few years before my dog Bruno had tortioned his testicle and they had had to remove it. My mother, a pediatrician if you didn't know, had explained to me that if the teste dies (EEK!) it must be removed or else. So I had a decision to make:
1) Do I tell my mom about my inflamed extremely painful testicles and possibly save the nut
or
2) Do i risk it, save my dignity but lose my nut.
Would would you have done?
"Mooooom!" I cried.
So my mother examines my testicles, with a worried Christine in the next room. She said they were extremely swollen and clearly they hurt me. So she calls my uncle Raul, a urologist (For you St. Thomas people he is my cousin, Alaine Garcia's dad). Raul rushes over from his office and tells me to drop trow. He puts on his rubber gloves and kneads my balls like two hard boiled eggs in a tube sock. My mother is in the room, consulting this examination of my balls. Christine is in the next room, within earshot.
"Have you had an erection today Jackie?" Asked Raul.
"Umm...yeah...for a while." I said.
"Well...you have blue balls Jackie." Said Raul.
"What?" I said.
"See, when you have an erection the semen comes down the urethra to get ready to ejaculate. When that doesn't happen for a while and more sperm comes down it backs up into the seminal vesicles causing pain and swelling" Said Raul quoting from the Urologists guide to dumb teenage ball trouble.
"So...what do I do? It really hurts." I said.
"Well, take two Tylenol and go jerk off." Said Raul making a Jerking off motion.
He then hands the rubber gloves to my mom, walks out the door, gets on his Harley and rides away like a Urological Easy Rider.
So there I am with my mother and Christine knowing I have to go upstairs and High Five Yul Bryner. So I'm trying to be non-chalant, right, attempting to casually make my way upstairs. Then my mother says:
"Well you better go to the bathroom and..." She tugs on the index finger of the rubber glove like one might on a wiener.
I then began my walk of shame passed my mother and my new girlfriend to go upstairs and clean my clogged pipes.
The moral of the story:
Sometimes having a family full of doctors really sucks
and
I'm glad I don't have to deal with dating anymore.
On Subway Peeing
Ok, so subway peeing.
For those of you who've never been to New York let me tell you how the train works. The NY subway is not on a monorail like the London tube or Disney's rail system. They are on literal train tracks with wheels and everything. So you have two tracks and then a third rail which is electrified and provides the train with power. Now when you are standing on the platform the live third rail is the furthest away from you. They are the entire lenth of the train, maybe 15 feet or so.
So what I wonder is if I could hit it with my pee.
Peeing on the subway is nothing new. There are alot of homeless folks that live in the subway system, particularly in the winter because the trains are heated. Also, most stations don't have bathrooms (not that you'd want to use them even if they did. I'm pretty sure a subway toilet is the origin of both the avian flu and the ebola virus). But could i hit it?
One day I had to pee really bad on the way back from school, and it was after that blizzard and I pee'd in the snow. It shot up a bunch of steam and immediately froze into a pee pop. My weenis didn't want to pee at first since it didn't understand the temperature it suddenly found itself, 14 degrees. My penis was all like, "Damn Mutherfucker! It's cold as hell!" and I was all like "pee!" and he was all like, "Ok! Fine!". YEah I talk to my penis. fuck off.
Throwing stuff at the third rail isn't new either. You see lots of batteries and metal things by the third rail by kids that had thrown shit to watch it zap. But what would pee do?
The first rail I could definitely hit, no problem. The second I think I could hit if i whipped my penis like a fire hose. The third rail though, that a challenge. I think If i pulled my wiener way back like back to my ass and flung it forward I could use it like a catapult to hit the third rail. I'd of course drink alot of water before hand and hold it for a while to get maximum water pressure...or pee pressure.
It's a thought.
Also some asshole keyed my car. Let me tell you something...If I had caught him...well, let's just say if you see a 270 pound guy wielding a golden skull headed mace wearing only underwear, snowboots, and a Mexican wrestler mask chasing you down the street you're not fucking likely to do that shit again.
Purim and Patty's
Last week was Purim, which for you Goyim is the holiday in which we Jews celebrate the time we were saved from being killed en masse in Babylon by Queen Esther. This holiday is traditionally celebrated by dressing up in costumes, hearing the reading of the book of Esther in Synagogue and getting toe up...that is drunk. I'm not sure why you're supposed to get drunk, but there it is.
so I had to go to class on Purim, and in Union square I saw the Lubavitcher Hasidim in their Mitzvah tank( which is a van with pictures of the Rebbe and shit on it). Well they were WAY drunk by the time I got there. They were dressed up like clowns and cowboys but mixed together with their traditional garb, like some rodeo clown extra from Fiddler on the Roof. They had put a flat party hat on a picture of the Rebbe on the Mitzvah tank. They were offering free drinks to Jewish passersby if they'd don teffilin (phylacteries used in morning prayers) or light candles if you're a chick. If I wasn't running late for class I would have gotten some booze from my jiggas, the lubavitchers.
Then Franz hill came to visit. We went around the city having a grand old time. The day we did alot of our grand tour of the city was on St. Patrick's day. This of course is a HUGE deal here in New York. They have a big parade that starts at St. Patrick's cathedral and winds its way down 5Th avenue. We found ourselves in central park, right along the parade route. There were thousands of people dressed in various green or shamrock themed outfits drunk off their ass at 2:30 pm. The women were scantily clad (even though it was 40 degrees and there was a strong wind) and the men clad in many "blow me I'm Irish" t-shirts and the like. We were serenaded by many groups,gaggles,troupes,business's of bagpipers. Bagpipes are from Scotland...so I don't get it.
Franz and I decided that we should go out to some of the many Irish pubs here in Brooklyn and that's what we did. First we went to the Wicked Monk, a converted church, were we heard a crappy band called the Dirty Stayouts that played bad music from the mid nineties. Franz said he thought Dirty Stayout was a new name for dingleberries. I agree. We went to another place and accidentally used some money that wasn't ours to but drinks...whoops. Then we came back and drank and watched Ali G. good times.
I find it interesting that Jews and Christians both use the celebration of on the one hand the survival of the Jewish people from annihilation and on the other a celebration of the saint that brought Christianity to Ireland as an excuse to get really really drunk. I saw Jewish kids stumbling out of bars out into the street and redheaded ruddy faced laddies puking green beer into a trash can both as a show of both faith and national pride. I don't know that I find the whole thing sad of fascinating.
The day after Franz and I saw a group of guys in Coney Island who ran into the freezing cold Atlantic for a swim. They are part of the Polar bear club and they go swimming every Sunday. This guy went into water that was 35 degrees wearing only his swim trunks. There was a weird Russian guy filming a documentary about them. He interviewed us about it. I said watching him made my balls go up in my body in fright. Another guy who had gone in said that doing so, "really made him feel like he's alive".
Maybe that's the whole point of it all. Purim, St. patty's, or swimming in freaking cold ass water. maybe what is important is stopping to push our bodies for a while into a state where we understand things more clearly. Maybe in the altered states provided by booze/hypothermia we pierce the veil of our everyday existence and reach out or trembling drunken hands skyward to touch the face of God.
Or maybe it's just an excuse to get totally drunk and feel up a stranger and or be a freak and swim in water fit only for a penguin. I don't know.
so I had to go to class on Purim, and in Union square I saw the Lubavitcher Hasidim in their Mitzvah tank( which is a van with pictures of the Rebbe and shit on it). Well they were WAY drunk by the time I got there. They were dressed up like clowns and cowboys but mixed together with their traditional garb, like some rodeo clown extra from Fiddler on the Roof. They had put a flat party hat on a picture of the Rebbe on the Mitzvah tank. They were offering free drinks to Jewish passersby if they'd don teffilin (phylacteries used in morning prayers) or light candles if you're a chick. If I wasn't running late for class I would have gotten some booze from my jiggas, the lubavitchers.
Then Franz hill came to visit. We went around the city having a grand old time. The day we did alot of our grand tour of the city was on St. Patrick's day. This of course is a HUGE deal here in New York. They have a big parade that starts at St. Patrick's cathedral and winds its way down 5Th avenue. We found ourselves in central park, right along the parade route. There were thousands of people dressed in various green or shamrock themed outfits drunk off their ass at 2:30 pm. The women were scantily clad (even though it was 40 degrees and there was a strong wind) and the men clad in many "blow me I'm Irish" t-shirts and the like. We were serenaded by many groups,gaggles,troupes,business's of bagpipers. Bagpipes are from Scotland...so I don't get it.
Franz and I decided that we should go out to some of the many Irish pubs here in Brooklyn and that's what we did. First we went to the Wicked Monk, a converted church, were we heard a crappy band called the Dirty Stayouts that played bad music from the mid nineties. Franz said he thought Dirty Stayout was a new name for dingleberries. I agree. We went to another place and accidentally used some money that wasn't ours to but drinks...whoops. Then we came back and drank and watched Ali G. good times.
I find it interesting that Jews and Christians both use the celebration of on the one hand the survival of the Jewish people from annihilation and on the other a celebration of the saint that brought Christianity to Ireland as an excuse to get really really drunk. I saw Jewish kids stumbling out of bars out into the street and redheaded ruddy faced laddies puking green beer into a trash can both as a show of both faith and national pride. I don't know that I find the whole thing sad of fascinating.
The day after Franz and I saw a group of guys in Coney Island who ran into the freezing cold Atlantic for a swim. They are part of the Polar bear club and they go swimming every Sunday. This guy went into water that was 35 degrees wearing only his swim trunks. There was a weird Russian guy filming a documentary about them. He interviewed us about it. I said watching him made my balls go up in my body in fright. Another guy who had gone in said that doing so, "really made him feel like he's alive".
Maybe that's the whole point of it all. Purim, St. patty's, or swimming in freaking cold ass water. maybe what is important is stopping to push our bodies for a while into a state where we understand things more clearly. Maybe in the altered states provided by booze/hypothermia we pierce the veil of our everyday existence and reach out or trembling drunken hands skyward to touch the face of God.
Or maybe it's just an excuse to get totally drunk and feel up a stranger and or be a freak and swim in water fit only for a penguin. I don't know.
pimp not me
I was standing on the subway platform today awaiting the N train to Brooklyn and scanning the crowd of people around me. Usually in Union Square there is an eclectic mix of people from high NYU students to Urban hipsters to High New School students. The usual.
Then I looked behind me, and there was the most pimptacular man I've ever seen.
He was a black man, wearing short dreads held back with a gold cord. He wore some fly Kanye West glasses and a set of slick looking wireless earphones. He wore blue pin stripe pants, a white shirt, with a white sweater vest, and a white tailored jacket with a crest on the pocket. And the best part:
A White LEATHER tie.
Now barring that it is 1986 and you are David Lee Roth going to the MTV movie awards most people today could not pull off a white leather tie. But this guy was so fly and knew it that and looked so flawless on him that any other tie would have been ludicrous and insulting.
Then I looked at myself and saw an overweight guy wearing jeans from Old Navy, a blue and white baseball shirt and my Astros hat. At my side was my bright yellow Ubertoast bag and my glasses. I was proud because I had gone down a couple of sizes in my pants from Double Fatass to Chunkmaster regular.
Living in a fashion conscious place like New York has made me aware of how I dress. Many of you knew me in College when I would literally roll out of bed and go to school in torn sweat pants and a Legend of Zelda t-shirt. That would probably not fly here in New York. Unless you are homeless. Then it's ok. If your homeless you can wear the head of a large Bart Simpson doll who you decapitated as a mask and no one looks twice. Artsy people here often go for the poverty look which can cost you around $100 to achieve from shops around Greenwich village.
I for one have adapted my way of dressing a bit. I'm a more fashionable version of myself. I have a kind of dork-chic Filmmaker thing going for me. Not spectacular but not too reminiscent of the guy on the subway that is singing songs from Purple Rain and smells like a rotting raccoon pita stuffed with cat shit. Life is all about compromise.
Then I looked behind me, and there was the most pimptacular man I've ever seen.
He was a black man, wearing short dreads held back with a gold cord. He wore some fly Kanye West glasses and a set of slick looking wireless earphones. He wore blue pin stripe pants, a white shirt, with a white sweater vest, and a white tailored jacket with a crest on the pocket. And the best part:
A White LEATHER tie.
Now barring that it is 1986 and you are David Lee Roth going to the MTV movie awards most people today could not pull off a white leather tie. But this guy was so fly and knew it that and looked so flawless on him that any other tie would have been ludicrous and insulting.
Then I looked at myself and saw an overweight guy wearing jeans from Old Navy, a blue and white baseball shirt and my Astros hat. At my side was my bright yellow Ubertoast bag and my glasses. I was proud because I had gone down a couple of sizes in my pants from Double Fatass to Chunkmaster regular.
Living in a fashion conscious place like New York has made me aware of how I dress. Many of you knew me in College when I would literally roll out of bed and go to school in torn sweat pants and a Legend of Zelda t-shirt. That would probably not fly here in New York. Unless you are homeless. Then it's ok. If your homeless you can wear the head of a large Bart Simpson doll who you decapitated as a mask and no one looks twice. Artsy people here often go for the poverty look which can cost you around $100 to achieve from shops around Greenwich village.
I for one have adapted my way of dressing a bit. I'm a more fashionable version of myself. I have a kind of dork-chic Filmmaker thing going for me. Not spectacular but not too reminiscent of the guy on the subway that is singing songs from Purple Rain and smells like a rotting raccoon pita stuffed with cat shit. Life is all about compromise.
Laura Dern Sucks
You know who I hate? Laura Dern. She sucks. alot. and not in that good "meet me under the stairwell at lunchtime"way either. First of all she has no subtext to any of the characters she plays. whether she's in Blue Velvet dating Kyle McClaughlin, in Rambling Rose, or running away from dinosaurs in Jurassic park. Also she is ugly, damn ugly. Not Willem Dafoe ugly, but like an Afghan hound with a face tumor. Man I wanted that velociraptor to eat her, but even he wouldn't go near that bitch and they eat rotting carrion. I once knew a girl that looked like Laura Dern. I had to 'Stand' with her at a quincenaera when I was 15. This sucked because quinceneras where a good way to hook up with chicks but I was put with afghan hound Laura dern girl. Oh she wanted to ride on the Jack Tomas train to extacylandia, but I denied her.
Speaking of Willem Dafoe, John and I saw a woman on the subway that was an uglier pockmarked high on crack version of Willem Dafoe. She was unfortunate. Like cystic fibrosis or Michael Bolton.
We were driving out to Cooperstown to go to the Baseball hall of fame and we discovered the source of the International Zionist Conspiracy or IZC. It was in a town called Suffern NY and there was an orthodox Jew with his tallit and stuff and he ran the International Zionist Conspiracy from a phone booth in the Exxon parking lot. He kept looking around to make sure that no one was coming to get him. He saw that John and I saw him but we simply flashed our Jew membership cards (our circumcised Junk) and he let us go. He looked really busy because it was passover and he had to coordinate killing all those christian children to use their blood to make matzoh. Later we saw two of his agents on the side of the road examining some grass...some anti-Semitic grass.
Speaking of grass happy 4-20 day for all of you who smoke the pot. I myself do not nor have I ever smoked of the pot. I have inhaled second hand smoke hanging out on the back porch of my friend Psycho Mike's house. He and his dad would often get high and tell me about how the moon landing was staged and how soon robots would solve all our problems and do all our work for us. Leave it to hippies to believe that and not the truth that soon the robots will revolt and try to kill us all. Remember, when in doubt smash their sensors and screens with a crowbar.
Speaking of Willem Dafoe, John and I saw a woman on the subway that was an uglier pockmarked high on crack version of Willem Dafoe. She was unfortunate. Like cystic fibrosis or Michael Bolton.
We were driving out to Cooperstown to go to the Baseball hall of fame and we discovered the source of the International Zionist Conspiracy or IZC. It was in a town called Suffern NY and there was an orthodox Jew with his tallit and stuff and he ran the International Zionist Conspiracy from a phone booth in the Exxon parking lot. He kept looking around to make sure that no one was coming to get him. He saw that John and I saw him but we simply flashed our Jew membership cards (our circumcised Junk) and he let us go. He looked really busy because it was passover and he had to coordinate killing all those christian children to use their blood to make matzoh. Later we saw two of his agents on the side of the road examining some grass...some anti-Semitic grass.
Speaking of grass happy 4-20 day for all of you who smoke the pot. I myself do not nor have I ever smoked of the pot. I have inhaled second hand smoke hanging out on the back porch of my friend Psycho Mike's house. He and his dad would often get high and tell me about how the moon landing was staged and how soon robots would solve all our problems and do all our work for us. Leave it to hippies to believe that and not the truth that soon the robots will revolt and try to kill us all. Remember, when in doubt smash their sensors and screens with a crowbar.
Eternal Rivals
There are things in this world that will always be at odds, eternal rivals fighting one against the other. This is what the Chinese call the Yin and Yang of the universe, the opposites that keep the universe going. Light and dark, good and evil, cat and dogs, ninjas and pirates, and of course the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox. I saw these rivals battle, and this is the tale...
The Sox were coming to the Bronx to play their first series against the Yankees. My buddy Brian was going to be in town so we got tickets. They were up in those nosebleeds, as a game against the Red Sox always sells out, but we didn't care. I had to see this in person.
You see Yankees fans hate the Red Sox. Now I don't mean there is a good natured sports rivalry the way other fans might have against another club. I mean they hate them and they wish them nothing but cancer and pain. So much so that when a player leaves the Red Sox for the Yankees the fans tend to feel a little betrayed and tainted. It's like throwing a rabid monkey with the Ebola virus into a kindergarten classroom. When we've gone to Yankees stadium to see them play whoever the fans still scream their hatred of Boston. They could be playing the Devil Rays or the Orioles and you'll here "Fuck Boston! Red Sox Suck!". When the game is in a lull they look at the scoreboard that shows the scores of other teams and start cheering for whoever is playing the Sox.
I once saw THE ENTIRE STADIUM start booing a guy wearing a Red Sox shirt. I wasn't going to miss this.
On the subway ride up to the stadium we began to notice that rather than seeing only Yankees hats and shirts we were seeing alot of Red Sox stuff. There are alot of people from Massachusetts who for a variety of reasons have moved down to New York. Usually they hide their love of the Red Sox from the light like lepers or Democrats in Alabama. There was another phenomenon I had not observed which was mixed couples, one a Yankees fan and one a Red Sox fan. i noticed that the Red Sox fans tended to be the women. I even saw a few gay couples and the more fay of the two was the Red Sox guy. Conversely at the Red Sox games at Fenway the women tended to be the Yankees fans and the men the Sox fans. I wonder if that says something about the tendency of men to stay in one place while women move around for work or whatever?
So we arrived at Yankees Stadium and bought our Nathan's hot dogs and sods in our Yankees souvenir cups and sat down to watch the game. When the Red Sox hit the field there was an explosion of boos they could hear up in Boston. They played the Imperial March from Star Wars like they always did. It had a particular resonance that day. They call the Yankees the evil empire due to their huge budget and larger than life persona. With Steinbrenner as the Emperor and Darth Jeter at the helm I guess. Then again the Red Sox need a hair cut.
The fans were rabid, on both sides. Evey play led to them quaking and screaming like they were at a foul mouthed tent revival. There were all new insults I had never heard. They would scream "FUCK YOU BOSTON!" "RED SUX" "EAT SHIT AND DIE YOU DIRTY FUCKING SHIT STAIN!" And "GO BACK TO BOSTON FENWAY FAGGOTS!" and the favorite "BOSTON SUCKS! BOSTON SUCKS!". In the first inning Hideki Matsui broke his wrist after slipping in the wet grass (it was raining) and having his arm bend back the wrong way four inches up from his hand. It was gross. The Red Sox fans seemed pleased. The particularly seemed happy when the Sox would get Johnny Damon out. Damon is persona non grata in Boston since defecting to the other side.
Marybec and I used to say he looked like a Neanderthal Jesus when he was with the Sox due to his hippie hair and beard. Steinbrenner had him shorn like a sheep. Now he looks less like Neanderthal Jesus and more like the love child of Abe Vigoda and a Baboon.
There were ejections, oh yes. there were 7 in our section alone. The fans would cheer or jeer depending on what team the ejected fan cheered for. Mostly the ejections were for fighting, blocking views, or other assorted douschebaggery.
The Red Sox won that day, but it didn't really matter. The point is that the rivals played again in a clash that goes back to when the teams were founded in the first decade of the twentieth century. the fans on both sides seemed to get a meaning and validation out of just being there. Boston and New York City are two larger than life cities with their own particular rules and culture. The citizens of these two towns wear where they are from like a mark on their forehead. The mark is the mark of their team, their town, their pride.
Oh and Johnny you asked what happens when the Yanks lose. When they win at the end of the game the Frank Sinatra version of New York, New York blares through the speakers and all the fans join in. When they lose they play the Liza Minelli version of New York, New York because that way we all lose and suffer.
..">
The Sox were coming to the Bronx to play their first series against the Yankees. My buddy Brian was going to be in town so we got tickets. They were up in those nosebleeds, as a game against the Red Sox always sells out, but we didn't care. I had to see this in person.
You see Yankees fans hate the Red Sox. Now I don't mean there is a good natured sports rivalry the way other fans might have against another club. I mean they hate them and they wish them nothing but cancer and pain. So much so that when a player leaves the Red Sox for the Yankees the fans tend to feel a little betrayed and tainted. It's like throwing a rabid monkey with the Ebola virus into a kindergarten classroom. When we've gone to Yankees stadium to see them play whoever the fans still scream their hatred of Boston. They could be playing the Devil Rays or the Orioles and you'll here "Fuck Boston! Red Sox Suck!". When the game is in a lull they look at the scoreboard that shows the scores of other teams and start cheering for whoever is playing the Sox.
I once saw THE ENTIRE STADIUM start booing a guy wearing a Red Sox shirt. I wasn't going to miss this.
On the subway ride up to the stadium we began to notice that rather than seeing only Yankees hats and shirts we were seeing alot of Red Sox stuff. There are alot of people from Massachusetts who for a variety of reasons have moved down to New York. Usually they hide their love of the Red Sox from the light like lepers or Democrats in Alabama. There was another phenomenon I had not observed which was mixed couples, one a Yankees fan and one a Red Sox fan. i noticed that the Red Sox fans tended to be the women. I even saw a few gay couples and the more fay of the two was the Red Sox guy. Conversely at the Red Sox games at Fenway the women tended to be the Yankees fans and the men the Sox fans. I wonder if that says something about the tendency of men to stay in one place while women move around for work or whatever?
So we arrived at Yankees Stadium and bought our Nathan's hot dogs and sods in our Yankees souvenir cups and sat down to watch the game. When the Red Sox hit the field there was an explosion of boos they could hear up in Boston. They played the Imperial March from Star Wars like they always did. It had a particular resonance that day. They call the Yankees the evil empire due to their huge budget and larger than life persona. With Steinbrenner as the Emperor and Darth Jeter at the helm I guess. Then again the Red Sox need a hair cut.
The fans were rabid, on both sides. Evey play led to them quaking and screaming like they were at a foul mouthed tent revival. There were all new insults I had never heard. They would scream "FUCK YOU BOSTON!" "RED SUX" "EAT SHIT AND DIE YOU DIRTY FUCKING SHIT STAIN!" And "GO BACK TO BOSTON FENWAY FAGGOTS!" and the favorite "BOSTON SUCKS! BOSTON SUCKS!". In the first inning Hideki Matsui broke his wrist after slipping in the wet grass (it was raining) and having his arm bend back the wrong way four inches up from his hand. It was gross. The Red Sox fans seemed pleased. The particularly seemed happy when the Sox would get Johnny Damon out. Damon is persona non grata in Boston since defecting to the other side.
Marybec and I used to say he looked like a Neanderthal Jesus when he was with the Sox due to his hippie hair and beard. Steinbrenner had him shorn like a sheep. Now he looks less like Neanderthal Jesus and more like the love child of Abe Vigoda and a Baboon.
There were ejections, oh yes. there were 7 in our section alone. The fans would cheer or jeer depending on what team the ejected fan cheered for. Mostly the ejections were for fighting, blocking views, or other assorted douschebaggery.
The Red Sox won that day, but it didn't really matter. The point is that the rivals played again in a clash that goes back to when the teams were founded in the first decade of the twentieth century. the fans on both sides seemed to get a meaning and validation out of just being there. Boston and New York City are two larger than life cities with their own particular rules and culture. The citizens of these two towns wear where they are from like a mark on their forehead. The mark is the mark of their team, their town, their pride.
Oh and Johnny you asked what happens when the Yanks lose. When they win at the end of the game the Frank Sinatra version of New York, New York blares through the speakers and all the fans join in. When they lose they play the Liza Minelli version of New York, New York because that way we all lose and suffer.
..">
On Lucha, El Santo, and Me
With the release of "Nacho Libre, there is an increase interest in Lucha Libre and its culture. For many Americans this movie may be the first introduction to Lucha and they may be confused and perturbed by what they see. As a person who is somewhat obsessed with Lucha Libre, I thought I would share my thoughts on it.
Lucha Libre is professional wrestling that is enjoyed by people all over Latin America. It literally means "Free fight" or "Free-for-all fight" but this is a bit of a misnomer. It is highly choreographed, more so even than American pro wrestling. It is different than Greco-Roman wrestling which relies on grapples and American Pro wrestling which is mostly defined by its throw maneuvers such as the pile driver or sleeper hold. No, Lucha Libre is an acrobatic aerial display more akin to Gymnastics and ballet than the other forms of wrestling. But this isn't what most people think of when they think of Lucha Libre, they think of the masks and the larger than life characters.
The mask is something that resonates in the mind of Latinos because of our ancestry that includes the various indigenous peoples of the Americas and the African cultures that came to Latin America through the slave trade. In the cultures of the Aztec, Maya, Inca and many others masks were used in their rituals in which they invoked their gods and in which they played out the myths and rites that kept the universe going. The African gods were likewise honored and celebrated by the slaves who brought their faith in their gods such as Chango, Yemaya, Obatala and others. When a dancer or shaman put on the face of the god, spirit, or demon he BECAME that entity. It was a way to bring the transcendental to the temporal. The god was there in your midst, and you could touch him and ask their help. This tradition lives on in the masks of the Luchadors. They don't talk about their contracts or alliances built on economic entities like they do on U.S. Wrestling shows. The Luchador plays out the eternal battle between good and evil. The Technicos (the technicians, or Good Guys) are locked in a constant struggle with the Rudos (rude boys or Bad Guys). The Technicos often take up the cause of the people both in and out of the ring. They build hospitals, try to get out the vote, and participate in literacy programs. The greatest luchador of all time, El Santo, set up a college fund to send underprivileged kids from poor neighborhoods to the university or like the true story that "Nacho Libre" is based on in which a monk really did wrestle to raise money for an orphanage. While it may seem odd to us in the United States to think that Hulk Hogan or Triple H would do such things in Latin America it is par for the course. The wrestlers are the modern incarnations of those immortal beings that fought for the people back in olden times. The rudos often represent corrupt crime lords, politicians, the police and other people within the society that seek to do them harm. They are not just vague representations of evil, but concrete examples of the evil within the society. Lucha Libre is highly moral and things are black and white with no shades of grey. You are either on the side of the people and good or on the side of the powerful and evil.
In the United States we tend to think of wrestling as a novelty or farce. We, unjustly, stereotype fans of wrestling as being white trash hicks. All it is is the male version of the "stories" the soap operas. But in Latin America Lucha Libre is a serious sport, one that in enjoyed by all levels of society. The wrestler is a respected athlete and a representative of national honor. The Luchador represents all that is best in the Latino should he is brave, passionate, and strong. He is the archetype of the man we all wish to be. We Latinos have had to fight for every shred of dignity we have. We've been conquered and exploited since the beginning by the Spanish, the Americans, the Soviets and others. Latino men have had to defend their nation and their family when it was threatened by these conquerors and exploiters. This is what the Luchador is, the champion of the people. Though the matches do happen in the big arenas in the big cities, they are more often in smaller venues in working class neighborhoods. Everyday people can don the mask and try their luck in the ring. If they win they may win a few bucks and at least some form of immortality.
The interesting thing is that it isn't the man behind the mask that matters but the character. It is common for the character to be passed down through generations as father passes on the mantle of El Santo, Rey Mysterio, Blue Demon, La Parka or others. When they go out in public they wear the mask and try not to show their faces to anyone but friends and family. These characters live forever because the symbol or image of the character cannot die. It is like Santa Claus, it doesn't matter that the guy in the mall isn't the real Santa he is A Santa. I could don the mask of Rey Mysterio and go in as a representative of the character and avatar of his essence.
The power of this phenomenon goes far beyond the borders of Latin America. Luchadors have infiltrated American Wrestling in which you can see Rey Mysterio, Jr. battling against Stone Cold Steve Austin. I was once on a ferry going from Athens to one of the islands in the Aegean sea and I was wearing my El Santo as a cowboy shirt. The two Greek guys behind the counter started yelling and pointing at my chest "El Santo! My Hero! El Santo!". I learned that El Santo's films are extremely popular in Greece, the birthplace of wrestling. The films made by El Santo, Blue Demon and others have brought Lucha Libre to many people who would never have seen it before. Usually they fight against Dracula or the Wolf Man or other such evil doers. On my netflix list El Santo and Blue Demon Vs. The Amazon women has "Very Long Wait" next to it due to their popularity. In my own comedy troupe Ubertoast, we have a pair of Mexican Wrestlers beat up some famous asswipe that has outlived their 15 minutes of fame.
When El Santo died in 1984 his funeral was attended by the president of Mexico and many other dignitaries. His coffin was taken through the streets and thousands of people came out to see him away. He was buried wearing his trademark silver mask and cape. A year later his son was back wearing the mask. El Santo cannot die, he is immortal.
If you go to Mexico journey into a market and pick up a mask. They usually cost about 5 bucks. Put it on and see how you feel. Maybe you will feel like fighting for justice...or maybe just like a jackass wearing a shiny mask in a Mexican market. You be the judge.
Lucha Libre is professional wrestling that is enjoyed by people all over Latin America. It literally means "Free fight" or "Free-for-all fight" but this is a bit of a misnomer. It is highly choreographed, more so even than American pro wrestling. It is different than Greco-Roman wrestling which relies on grapples and American Pro wrestling which is mostly defined by its throw maneuvers such as the pile driver or sleeper hold. No, Lucha Libre is an acrobatic aerial display more akin to Gymnastics and ballet than the other forms of wrestling. But this isn't what most people think of when they think of Lucha Libre, they think of the masks and the larger than life characters.
The mask is something that resonates in the mind of Latinos because of our ancestry that includes the various indigenous peoples of the Americas and the African cultures that came to Latin America through the slave trade. In the cultures of the Aztec, Maya, Inca and many others masks were used in their rituals in which they invoked their gods and in which they played out the myths and rites that kept the universe going. The African gods were likewise honored and celebrated by the slaves who brought their faith in their gods such as Chango, Yemaya, Obatala and others. When a dancer or shaman put on the face of the god, spirit, or demon he BECAME that entity. It was a way to bring the transcendental to the temporal. The god was there in your midst, and you could touch him and ask their help. This tradition lives on in the masks of the Luchadors. They don't talk about their contracts or alliances built on economic entities like they do on U.S. Wrestling shows. The Luchador plays out the eternal battle between good and evil. The Technicos (the technicians, or Good Guys) are locked in a constant struggle with the Rudos (rude boys or Bad Guys). The Technicos often take up the cause of the people both in and out of the ring. They build hospitals, try to get out the vote, and participate in literacy programs. The greatest luchador of all time, El Santo, set up a college fund to send underprivileged kids from poor neighborhoods to the university or like the true story that "Nacho Libre" is based on in which a monk really did wrestle to raise money for an orphanage. While it may seem odd to us in the United States to think that Hulk Hogan or Triple H would do such things in Latin America it is par for the course. The wrestlers are the modern incarnations of those immortal beings that fought for the people back in olden times. The rudos often represent corrupt crime lords, politicians, the police and other people within the society that seek to do them harm. They are not just vague representations of evil, but concrete examples of the evil within the society. Lucha Libre is highly moral and things are black and white with no shades of grey. You are either on the side of the people and good or on the side of the powerful and evil.
In the United States we tend to think of wrestling as a novelty or farce. We, unjustly, stereotype fans of wrestling as being white trash hicks. All it is is the male version of the "stories" the soap operas. But in Latin America Lucha Libre is a serious sport, one that in enjoyed by all levels of society. The wrestler is a respected athlete and a representative of national honor. The Luchador represents all that is best in the Latino should he is brave, passionate, and strong. He is the archetype of the man we all wish to be. We Latinos have had to fight for every shred of dignity we have. We've been conquered and exploited since the beginning by the Spanish, the Americans, the Soviets and others. Latino men have had to defend their nation and their family when it was threatened by these conquerors and exploiters. This is what the Luchador is, the champion of the people. Though the matches do happen in the big arenas in the big cities, they are more often in smaller venues in working class neighborhoods. Everyday people can don the mask and try their luck in the ring. If they win they may win a few bucks and at least some form of immortality.
The interesting thing is that it isn't the man behind the mask that matters but the character. It is common for the character to be passed down through generations as father passes on the mantle of El Santo, Rey Mysterio, Blue Demon, La Parka or others. When they go out in public they wear the mask and try not to show their faces to anyone but friends and family. These characters live forever because the symbol or image of the character cannot die. It is like Santa Claus, it doesn't matter that the guy in the mall isn't the real Santa he is A Santa. I could don the mask of Rey Mysterio and go in as a representative of the character and avatar of his essence.
The power of this phenomenon goes far beyond the borders of Latin America. Luchadors have infiltrated American Wrestling in which you can see Rey Mysterio, Jr. battling against Stone Cold Steve Austin. I was once on a ferry going from Athens to one of the islands in the Aegean sea and I was wearing my El Santo as a cowboy shirt. The two Greek guys behind the counter started yelling and pointing at my chest "El Santo! My Hero! El Santo!". I learned that El Santo's films are extremely popular in Greece, the birthplace of wrestling. The films made by El Santo, Blue Demon and others have brought Lucha Libre to many people who would never have seen it before. Usually they fight against Dracula or the Wolf Man or other such evil doers. On my netflix list El Santo and Blue Demon Vs. The Amazon women has "Very Long Wait" next to it due to their popularity. In my own comedy troupe Ubertoast, we have a pair of Mexican Wrestlers beat up some famous asswipe that has outlived their 15 minutes of fame.
When El Santo died in 1984 his funeral was attended by the president of Mexico and many other dignitaries. His coffin was taken through the streets and thousands of people came out to see him away. He was buried wearing his trademark silver mask and cape. A year later his son was back wearing the mask. El Santo cannot die, he is immortal.
If you go to Mexico journey into a market and pick up a mask. They usually cost about 5 bucks. Put it on and see how you feel. Maybe you will feel like fighting for justice...or maybe just like a jackass wearing a shiny mask in a Mexican market. You be the judge.
Stoned Eternal
I spent alot of time over the last week with my brother-in-law Matthew who is a freshman in High School. Matt is on the wrestling team and I've seen more pubescent boys grinding on each other while wearing orange spandex singlets than anyone should ever see...Unless your into that kind of thing in which case I wonder: why are you into 14 year old boys in orange singlets, ya freak?!
So, i've been in and around a high school for the first time in many a long moon. When I was Matt's age...(wavy flashback lines here)
The year was 1992. Nirvana was on the radio, rational intelligent people actually wore flannels and long johns in 97 degree Houston weather, people still wore the mullet with no sense or irony, and I was not the vigorous specimen of manhood you know and admire. I was a pudgy chipmunk-looking doofus in a Catholic School boy uniform reading Plato in the back of a class full mostly with Neaderthals.
What I noticed this week how much had not changed in the 13 years since I was a high school freshman. For example the stoner kids were still wearing bell bottomed raver pants or baggy jeans and a Nirvana/Doors/Jimi Hendrix shirt. It was like a glimpse into the past where the stoners wore Doors/Jimi shirts even though both had died years before our birth as Kurt Cobain too had died before these kids were born. They spent hours brooding and drinking coffee at Ihop/Denny's/Waffle House and smoking endless packs of Marloboro Light 100's along with the Gothkids who also bear a striking resemblance to the dousche's that applied eyeliner to themselves over a decade ago.
Kids like Matt are kids like me. Dorks that play video games and watch movies and hang out with other dorks oblivious to the fact that there are these things called girls and vaginas. While I remember lamenting girls not liking me because I was dork and not a jock, I also remember how much fun I had with my friends many of whom I still count as my closest friends to this day. I'm also consoled in the fact that I am getting a Master's in Film and have already had a movie in a major film festival and am happily married while most of the popular kids in high school are working at Jiffy Lube and have 5 kids and live in a double wide in Sugarland and the burnout stoners mostly still work at Starbucks in Clear Lake.
We dorks and nerds are like the Buddhist middle road, neither the hyper reality of the Jock nor the delusional blacklight and patchouli haze of the stoner and Gothkid. We are the poridge goldilocks ate. Then I ate her...OOOH! (sorry)
So, i've been in and around a high school for the first time in many a long moon. When I was Matt's age...(wavy flashback lines here)
The year was 1992. Nirvana was on the radio, rational intelligent people actually wore flannels and long johns in 97 degree Houston weather, people still wore the mullet with no sense or irony, and I was not the vigorous specimen of manhood you know and admire. I was a pudgy chipmunk-looking doofus in a Catholic School boy uniform reading Plato in the back of a class full mostly with Neaderthals.
What I noticed this week how much had not changed in the 13 years since I was a high school freshman. For example the stoner kids were still wearing bell bottomed raver pants or baggy jeans and a Nirvana/Doors/Jimi Hendrix shirt. It was like a glimpse into the past where the stoners wore Doors/Jimi shirts even though both had died years before our birth as Kurt Cobain too had died before these kids were born. They spent hours brooding and drinking coffee at Ihop/Denny's/Waffle House and smoking endless packs of Marloboro Light 100's along with the Gothkids who also bear a striking resemblance to the dousche's that applied eyeliner to themselves over a decade ago.
Kids like Matt are kids like me. Dorks that play video games and watch movies and hang out with other dorks oblivious to the fact that there are these things called girls and vaginas. While I remember lamenting girls not liking me because I was dork and not a jock, I also remember how much fun I had with my friends many of whom I still count as my closest friends to this day. I'm also consoled in the fact that I am getting a Master's in Film and have already had a movie in a major film festival and am happily married while most of the popular kids in high school are working at Jiffy Lube and have 5 kids and live in a double wide in Sugarland and the burnout stoners mostly still work at Starbucks in Clear Lake.
We dorks and nerds are like the Buddhist middle road, neither the hyper reality of the Jock nor the delusional blacklight and patchouli haze of the stoner and Gothkid. We are the poridge goldilocks ate. Then I ate her...OOOH! (sorry)
Nectar of the Gods
I am of the opinion that Orange and Grape sodas are the nectar talked about in olden days. When you get to heaven Orange soda is probably what is in God's God glass...or stein...I bet God drinks froma stein or goblet. It is just delicious.
You take your cola. You take it right away and shove it up a pigs's ass and then dispose of it in a recycling receptacle. Pig shit or not, you should recycle. Bitch.
Grape soda or Grape drink is delicious too. it is good on by itself, with pizza, or mixed with vodka which Brian and I discovered makes it taste like Grape dimetap! As we all know Dimetap is the great reliever of coughs and is super delicious. It is only bigotry that people shun the grape drink because "only black people drink that shit". First of all, Fuck you, and secondly if that is true then I'm black and I'm proud.
Perhaps it is because I am Hispanic that I hold fruit sodas in such high regard. Perhaps. Quizas?
Or maybe it is that I have a tongue with taste buds and they work, Smokey.
So grab some sunkist/fanta/ or Orange Crush or (oranje Kroosh as it was pronounced in pre-Castro Cuba) or grape drink and enjoy life. Life is good with a fruity drink.
You take your cola. You take it right away and shove it up a pigs's ass and then dispose of it in a recycling receptacle. Pig shit or not, you should recycle. Bitch.
Grape soda or Grape drink is delicious too. it is good on by itself, with pizza, or mixed with vodka which Brian and I discovered makes it taste like Grape dimetap! As we all know Dimetap is the great reliever of coughs and is super delicious. It is only bigotry that people shun the grape drink because "only black people drink that shit". First of all, Fuck you, and secondly if that is true then I'm black and I'm proud.
Perhaps it is because I am Hispanic that I hold fruit sodas in such high regard. Perhaps. Quizas?
Or maybe it is that I have a tongue with taste buds and they work, Smokey.
So grab some sunkist/fanta/ or Orange Crush or (oranje Kroosh as it was pronounced in pre-Castro Cuba) or grape drink and enjoy life. Life is good with a fruity drink.
Jack Tomas never had a Chinese Star
My brother-in-law Matt was in New York last week and like any red blooded American 15 year old boy he made a b-line for Chinatown where he bought weird Japanese candies and a full ninja costume including some Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle fucking Leonardo Sais. Then we took pictures of him as ninja fighting me as luchador (see my picture page).
This made me reflect on one the most glorious movements in cinema in the last 50 years, which is the ninja film craze of the 1980's. When I was a lad, knee high to my father's sense of indifference toward me, I like most of my friends were obsessed with ninjas. Films like Enter the Ninja, Pray For Death, and Ninja 3: The domination came through the local WB affiliate like fuel for my prepubecent imagination. Ninja Gaiden was on everyone's Christmas/Channukah list because it was the most baddass game ever. But simply playing games and watching the movies was not enough. Oh no.
So we all got ninja outfits, the real ones from the back of martial arts magazines. The ones with separate lower and top hood and the proper gauntlets and tabi boots. So my mother paid the $39 for my ninja costume. We had a rich friend whose parents owned the Mamacitas restaurant chain, and they bought him the black ninja outfit and the white snow/ fucking stormshadow outfit. I hated him and still do.
We would change out of our sly Catholic school uniforms (red,white,and blue plaid shirt and tight crotched/flaired bellbottom polyester navy pants) and would put on our ninja costumes and fight. No teacher could stop us...only a ninja can defeat a ninja. Where they ninjas? fuck no! they were all unmmarried closet lesbos (at least at my school) and bored housewives with an education degree.
I begged my mom to buy me some real ninja weapons. Ninja stars, ninja swords, kamas, nunchuka, grappling gloves etc. anything would do. My mom refused because she is a pediatrician and was afraid I would "kill someone" "put out an eye" instead of my being "totally f'ing badass". In retrospect perhaps it was good parenting on her part that she didn't buy an 8 year old deadly sharp weapons and perhaps bad parenting that many of my friends parents not only bought them these weapons but let them take them to school for show and tell. It is also a testament to how things have changed that my friends would pull out bladed weapons and show the class the proper way to lob a razor sharp chinese star at someone's head without getting taken out by a SWAT sniper or being put in therapy.
Then one day I was playing chinese stars with my friend Derek (he once tried to cut his penis off with a pair of paper scissors). We were lobbing them at his fence in ways i was never allowed to because my mom "cared" about me. Then Derek stuck one accidently in the back of his brother's head as my mom pulled up in her car. She, you know, overreacted as she removed the star and held his head compressed as she rushed him to the hospital. I wasn't allowed to see Derek anymore.
The popularity of ninjas isn't what it used to be but it certainly is still around. With anime, the Teenage Mutant Ninja turtle comeback and many others it goes to show that somethings never change. Those things are the fact that stealthy assassins that kill people using magic powers and cool looking weapons NEVER stops being awesome. Never.
This made me reflect on one the most glorious movements in cinema in the last 50 years, which is the ninja film craze of the 1980's. When I was a lad, knee high to my father's sense of indifference toward me, I like most of my friends were obsessed with ninjas. Films like Enter the Ninja, Pray For Death, and Ninja 3: The domination came through the local WB affiliate like fuel for my prepubecent imagination. Ninja Gaiden was on everyone's Christmas/Channukah list because it was the most baddass game ever. But simply playing games and watching the movies was not enough. Oh no.
So we all got ninja outfits, the real ones from the back of martial arts magazines. The ones with separate lower and top hood and the proper gauntlets and tabi boots. So my mother paid the $39 for my ninja costume. We had a rich friend whose parents owned the Mamacitas restaurant chain, and they bought him the black ninja outfit and the white snow/ fucking stormshadow outfit. I hated him and still do.
We would change out of our sly Catholic school uniforms (red,white,and blue plaid shirt and tight crotched/flaired bellbottom polyester navy pants) and would put on our ninja costumes and fight. No teacher could stop us...only a ninja can defeat a ninja. Where they ninjas? fuck no! they were all unmmarried closet lesbos (at least at my school) and bored housewives with an education degree.
I begged my mom to buy me some real ninja weapons. Ninja stars, ninja swords, kamas, nunchuka, grappling gloves etc. anything would do. My mom refused because she is a pediatrician and was afraid I would "kill someone" "put out an eye" instead of my being "totally f'ing badass". In retrospect perhaps it was good parenting on her part that she didn't buy an 8 year old deadly sharp weapons and perhaps bad parenting that many of my friends parents not only bought them these weapons but let them take them to school for show and tell. It is also a testament to how things have changed that my friends would pull out bladed weapons and show the class the proper way to lob a razor sharp chinese star at someone's head without getting taken out by a SWAT sniper or being put in therapy.
Then one day I was playing chinese stars with my friend Derek (he once tried to cut his penis off with a pair of paper scissors). We were lobbing them at his fence in ways i was never allowed to because my mom "cared" about me. Then Derek stuck one accidently in the back of his brother's head as my mom pulled up in her car. She, you know, overreacted as she removed the star and held his head compressed as she rushed him to the hospital. I wasn't allowed to see Derek anymore.
The popularity of ninjas isn't what it used to be but it certainly is still around. With anime, the Teenage Mutant Ninja turtle comeback and many others it goes to show that somethings never change. Those things are the fact that stealthy assassins that kill people using magic powers and cool looking weapons NEVER stops being awesome. Never.
Who are You?
I would like to share something beautiful I saw on TV today. I was watching TV, like I do because there is not much else to do in Pasadena on a Tuesday night, and they were doing a retrospective on the 40th anniversary of the Monterrey Pop Festival. Now as many of you probably know this is the famous concert in 1967 that ushered in the hippie summer of love and made superstars of jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin amoung others.
Now I want to tell you that I hate hippies. I hate old hippies and I hate young ones even more. See the world has real problems that require real solutions. Smoking pot and sending out, like positive vibes, man is not a solution to anything other than how to waste that money your parents spent on sending you to college. Their ideas are the worst kind of psuedointellectual incoherent dreck and their "methods", (if smoking pot and stinking is a method) are idiotic. So yeah, fuck them in their macrobiotic asses.
Anyways, after watching a half hour of these old hippies talking about how peaceful and love filled the festival was and how they were all on acid and handing out flowers to the cops after song after song of Country Joe and the Fish and The Dead the anouncer says..."Then the Who came on..."
Keith Moon bellows into the mike, "This is where it all ends!"
They rip into "My Generation". These guys are aggressive and they don't approach their music like it's a rainbow or a patchouli scented flower but as a guy they want to beat up or a woman they want to fuck.
They keep panning to the hippies in the audience who are absolutely dumbfounded. Some of the women are crying. A bad trip, man.
After their songs they begin to tear apart their instruments. Pete Townsend impales his guitar in his amp sending out a shrieking roar as it catches fire. The hippies put their hands to the upper middle class ears and wail. What happened to peace and love? Where is Ravi Shankar, man?
Keith Moon kicks his drum set off it's stand and almost into the crowd as it explodes from pyrotechnics. He then gives them the British "Fuck you!" sign, which ironically is an inverted peace sign. The hippies are stunned and upset. They slowly begin to clap as the Who has already left the stage. The concert organizers come on and start cleaning up the mess.
That's why I love the Who.
Now I want to tell you that I hate hippies. I hate old hippies and I hate young ones even more. See the world has real problems that require real solutions. Smoking pot and sending out, like positive vibes, man is not a solution to anything other than how to waste that money your parents spent on sending you to college. Their ideas are the worst kind of psuedointellectual incoherent dreck and their "methods", (if smoking pot and stinking is a method) are idiotic. So yeah, fuck them in their macrobiotic asses.
Anyways, after watching a half hour of these old hippies talking about how peaceful and love filled the festival was and how they were all on acid and handing out flowers to the cops after song after song of Country Joe and the Fish and The Dead the anouncer says..."Then the Who came on..."
Keith Moon bellows into the mike, "This is where it all ends!"
They rip into "My Generation". These guys are aggressive and they don't approach their music like it's a rainbow or a patchouli scented flower but as a guy they want to beat up or a woman they want to fuck.
They keep panning to the hippies in the audience who are absolutely dumbfounded. Some of the women are crying. A bad trip, man.
After their songs they begin to tear apart their instruments. Pete Townsend impales his guitar in his amp sending out a shrieking roar as it catches fire. The hippies put their hands to the upper middle class ears and wail. What happened to peace and love? Where is Ravi Shankar, man?
Keith Moon kicks his drum set off it's stand and almost into the crowd as it explodes from pyrotechnics. He then gives them the British "Fuck you!" sign, which ironically is an inverted peace sign. The hippies are stunned and upset. They slowly begin to clap as the Who has already left the stage. The concert organizers come on and start cleaning up the mess.
That's why I love the Who.
The Hothead
Men. Listen to me. Women also take note to remind your man.
You know who is the coolest dresser in any movie? James Caan in the Godfather. Look at him. Study him. Sonny Corleone looks awesome in ever scene of that movie. Whether it is the tuxedo at the beginning of the film, The assortment of slacks and white unbuttoned shirts he sports in scenes where they are figuring out what to do about the coming war with the five families, or even a wife beater with suspenders and black pants. HE looks awesome no matter what he is wearing. Why? Because he wears it with style and confidence. His brother Michael learns this and goes from looking like a schlep to the incredible suit and hat combo he wears when he goes to ask Diane Keaton to marry him or the blue suit he wears as he stands godfather to his nephew and kills everyone including the baby's father. It is because he too is exuding his natural confidence, strength, and style.
Why is this important? Because these icons come from an era where men gave a shit about what they wore and had a style all their own. I'm not saying we all have to wear three piece suits, wear whatever the hell you want and do so with the same style and confidence as James Caan and Al Pacino in the Godfather. I wear goofy t-shirts with jeans or pants, nice shoes, and a jacket. This is MY style, Dignified Wackosity. I remember my grandfather who wore a guyabera like no man I've ever seen. He got them tailor made for him by Ramon Puig, el Rey de las Guayaberas in Miami. He looked like million bucks when he wore one of them. He looked equally good in a suit with his doctor's coat at the hospital, or in the Sear's jumpsuit he often wore around the house. Even that he looked sharp, because he was confident and sure of himself.
Men are simple creatures. We are motivated by three things only:Sex, Food, and Power. If a man has no sense of his own power, worth, and intellect he looks like a pile of shit. You can put him in a 7k Armani suit and he still looks like a pile of shit. A man who is weak and powerless does not get laid and his fellow men do not respect him. Sonny and Michael Corleone get laid and men respect them. So did Dean Martin, Desi Arnaz, Benny More, my grandfather and other men whose style I admire. I learned this because in times in my life when I didn't believe in myself and didn't hold to my own power as a man and confidence in myself this was the case. Ask any woman and she'll tell you that a guy with no confidence is about as big a turn off as anything in the world.
James Caan, Thank you.
You know who is the coolest dresser in any movie? James Caan in the Godfather. Look at him. Study him. Sonny Corleone looks awesome in ever scene of that movie. Whether it is the tuxedo at the beginning of the film, The assortment of slacks and white unbuttoned shirts he sports in scenes where they are figuring out what to do about the coming war with the five families, or even a wife beater with suspenders and black pants. HE looks awesome no matter what he is wearing. Why? Because he wears it with style and confidence. His brother Michael learns this and goes from looking like a schlep to the incredible suit and hat combo he wears when he goes to ask Diane Keaton to marry him or the blue suit he wears as he stands godfather to his nephew and kills everyone including the baby's father. It is because he too is exuding his natural confidence, strength, and style.
Why is this important? Because these icons come from an era where men gave a shit about what they wore and had a style all their own. I'm not saying we all have to wear three piece suits, wear whatever the hell you want and do so with the same style and confidence as James Caan and Al Pacino in the Godfather. I wear goofy t-shirts with jeans or pants, nice shoes, and a jacket. This is MY style, Dignified Wackosity. I remember my grandfather who wore a guyabera like no man I've ever seen. He got them tailor made for him by Ramon Puig, el Rey de las Guayaberas in Miami. He looked like million bucks when he wore one of them. He looked equally good in a suit with his doctor's coat at the hospital, or in the Sear's jumpsuit he often wore around the house. Even that he looked sharp, because he was confident and sure of himself.
Men are simple creatures. We are motivated by three things only:Sex, Food, and Power. If a man has no sense of his own power, worth, and intellect he looks like a pile of shit. You can put him in a 7k Armani suit and he still looks like a pile of shit. A man who is weak and powerless does not get laid and his fellow men do not respect him. Sonny and Michael Corleone get laid and men respect them. So did Dean Martin, Desi Arnaz, Benny More, my grandfather and other men whose style I admire. I learned this because in times in my life when I didn't believe in myself and didn't hold to my own power as a man and confidence in myself this was the case. Ask any woman and she'll tell you that a guy with no confidence is about as big a turn off as anything in the world.
James Caan, Thank you.
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